Harry Potter: Hadrian the Wild
by Traban16
Summary: Harry Potter is well-known to the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros as the child of Robert Baratheon and the late Lynna Stark. With the title of firstborn Crown Prince, Hadrian Eddard Baratheon, changes the rules of the game and the world as he sees fit. He has to, because Winter Is Coming and his enemies know it.
1. Hadrian Wolfsblood Baratheon

**Summary: Harry Potter is well-known to the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros as the child of Robert Baratheon and the late Lynna Stark. With the title of firstborn Crown Prince, Hadrian Eddard Baratheon, he changes the rules of the game and the world. He has to, because Winter Is Coming and his enemies know it.**

 **Chapter 1:** **Hadrian "Wolfsblood" Baratheon**

* * *

"If you listened to my counsel as well as you huntedHadrian "Wolf Blood" Baratheon, my prince," came the very calm drawl from behind the crown prince of the Seven Kingdoms, "then perhaps your father would have seen fit to give you his Iron Throne by now."

"Ser Dayne," the prince retorted with a snort and an easy smile, "don't insult my father. He's as stubborn as this buck was to kill. Nearly lost the bloody beast with how slow you lot are. Seven arrows, and still it was going on like they were fleas biting it…"

Four armored individuals and a squire boy walked into the clearing with the knight closest to the prince taking his hunting bow and quiver of arrows. The other three attended to the stag.

"An excellent shot, Your Highness." The squire boy said as he collected the hunting bow and arrows from Ser Dayne, who knocked him in the chest with them all the while giving the boy a severe look.

"He'll learn better, just as you will, my prince. He'll keep up with our lot yet." Ser Dayne said in a tone that brokered no arguments. The boy nodded vigorously, but the prince only shook his head with a chuckle.

"You're much too hard on Gendry, just as you were with Edric, and even before then with me." The prince said, emerald green eyes looking upon young Gendry with nothing but kindness.

"The Seven know I do it out of necessity. The world wouldn't show them half the kindness you do if you hadn't taken them in."

"Well they _are_ my brothers."

" _Half_ -brothers."

Edric and Gendry were his brothers. True, they were bastard-born, but he loved them all the same. And truer still, he didn't express the same level of affection for all his siblings, but he didn't have to explain his favoritism to anyone. His father certainly did not, nor would he. The only difference between Edric and Gendry was that Edric was an acknowledged bastard son of the king, while Gendry was only viewed upon by the realm as the son of a whore. Even still, the prince allowed both to become squires under Ser Dayne as he himself had until a few years ago when he had reached of the appropriate age.

His father and good-uncle had been insistent, and the prince was thankful for that in hindsight.

"Brothers all the same. They share my blood. And even without, they are family as ties of blood mean nothing when comradery is as strong as we."

Another of the four knights approached after the deer was secure and taken care of.

"You're quite smooth, Prince Hadrian. What with all your honeyed words about the love you afford your bastard brothers. Yet, you don't show half the love for your highborn brother, Prince Joffrey. It's a shame, really." The only female of the group, the lady knight Brienne of Tarth said, almost as though it was more than could bear.

"If my little brother weren't half the vile little monster he proves himself to be time and time again, then perhaps I _wouldn't_ show only half the love. I love the side of him that is my brother, a prince as strong as he is cunning. What I don't love, Brienne, is the side of Joffrey that gets cock-hard for every person that bows low to his shits and all the whipping boys he's allowed to beat upon. He revels in the suffering of others too much for my liking, as if he were a beast in human form." The prince's emerald eyes flared then, seeming like frozen jewels as they glared off into the distance. "It disgusts me to think my father's blood runs through his veins… if even _that_ is true with how much he looks like Ser Jamie each passing day…"

"Ser Darry! Ser Martell! Secure my horse, and the game! We ride on to Winterfell!" the prince announced, turning as his crimson and gold armor gleamed in the sparse daylight of the North.

"Your Highness, we're already a month's ride ahead of your king father. Would it not be wise to wait at least a week's time for the royal entourage to catch up some to our haste?" Ser Martell yelled from where he was securing the deer in the back of an open carriage with the other killings they had made along the way through the North.

"If not for that blasted wheelhouse, they'd be here with me…" the prince muttered, disgusted with the contraption that his queen-mother loved so much. He then shook his head to clear his thoughts, "Besides, our riding ahead is with purpose. My good-uncle should hear the news from my mouth, or that of my father's. Not from some blasted raven, or my Aunt Catelyn who never knew Jon Arryn as we all did. The man was too good to have his death told to his foster son by some note attached to a bird. He should grieve as we did with us with him."

"If you ride on, my prince," Ser Dayne said, scratching the beard on his chin, "Then we follow. The Griffguard are with you."

"Well, four-tenths of the Griffguard at any rate… Nonetheless, let us be off with our game. We will reach Winterfell by evening, and tomorrow greet my Stark family with a feast in mourning of Jon Arryn."

"Aye, Prince Harry!" everyone, even Gendry, chorused as they knew the lengths their prince went through for honor and integrity.

As Harry mounted his steed, so did the others. Gendry was given a new horse since they had left King's Landing. Ser Darry mounted his grey mare. Brienne of Tarth whipped her mount into riding off after the prince. Ser Dayne rolled his eyes as he bid Gendry to keep up with them this time. Ser Martell stretched his back, bones creaking and popping before he swiftly mounted his stead, and set off on a trail blazing after Prince Hadrian. Gendry watched these legendary figures as he always did, seeing them race off into the distance after his royal-born brother.

"Boy! I said keep up!" Ser Dayne yelled, and Gendry started into action as he urged his stallion to follow the others.

* * *

It took a little over seven hours of hard horseback riding to reach Winterfell. It had been a few years since Prince Harry had seen the castle of his good-family, the Starks. He had fostered under his uncle Eddard "Ned" Stark for a few years when he reached his tenth nameday, but upon reaching one-and-three, he had been given to Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy to be trained as a knight and fighter of the realm. It wasn't until a year ago that he had been deemed a knight of the land, and left Edric to finish his squireship with Ser Selmy while making Ser Dayne take Gendry on the same. The boy would make a great blacksmith, of that his brother Harry had little doubt, but Harry wanted him to be as fierce with crushing skulls as he was with slamming his hammer to an anvil.

As he entered the courtyard, Harry sent his sworn knights headed off to do their duties in arranging their lodgings for their stay with the castle staff and seeing that their game reached the kitchens for the evening's supper. Gendry followed behind Harry as he normally would unless commanded different by either Harry or Ser Dayne. He kept a mind about him to allows remain three steps behind his true-born brother.

Hadrian Eddard Baratheon, the First of His Name, Crown Prince to the Seven Kingdoms and Dragonstone. "Harry" he was called by those he allowed the privilege; those that knew and loved him well enough, but _never_ anything less. He had their father's temper sometimes, this Gendry knew when he had seen Harry set upon a group of highborn little lords that thought to call him bastard in front of Harry.

" _If my brother's a bastard, then I'll be the one to remind him of that_!" Harry had thundered like a powerful storm of ice and lightning, punching the nearest boy— the son of a knight, if Gendry remembered correctly— before moving onto the others, " _Unless you've got our blood in your veins, don't you_ dare _think to insult him! The blood of your king and I, your prince, is in him. It means my little shit of a bastard brother still worth ten of all you lot! Now go, before I honor you all again with my sword instead of my fists_!"

Gendry had never been so surprised as that day to be Harry's brother. Every day saw him grow as a better blacksmith at the smith, and better squire to Ser Dayne. Every day saw Harry and him grow closer as brothers. Every day saw him love his half-brother more dearly than anyone else in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms.

And yet… even with all the love he afforded his brother, Gendry held no love for the North. He had been born in King's Landing far to the south of this barren wasteland. He also kept to the Faith of the Seven, even if he wasn't exactly a High Sparrow about it.

And while everything in the south was bright and airy, like walking through a fresh garden, everything in the North was the exact opposite as it was all dark and primal with trees untouched for tens of thousands of years. And the Stark family's gloomy castle, Winterfell, rose up around it. It smelled of moist earth and decay. It was a place of deep silence and brooding shadows, and the gods who lived here had no names.

But all the same, his good-brother loved this gloomy abysmal place as though it were his home as much as King's Landing was.

Still, Gendry could at least admit that Winterfell smelt lots better than the Red Keep, and better yet than Flea Bottom…

"My beloved lord uncle," Harry said, his voice light with an air of familiarity as he spread his arms wide.

Gendry blinked. Apparently while in his thoughts, he hadn't even notice them end up in the godswood of the castle. He shivered. He hated this wood even more than the North's barren lands and the gloom of Winterfell castle. Gendry hated their nameless ways and odd faces. His gods had names, and their faces were as familiar as the faces of Ser Dayne and his brother Harry.

But Gendry clamped down on such thoughts. The blood of the First Men still flowed in the veins of Harry just as much as the Starks who were Hadrian's family. And Harry prayed to the gods, the named and the nameless, the old and the new.

Lord Stark lifted his head to look at them. "Harry?" His voice was distant and formal.

That was always Lord Stark, Gendry found, distant and formal. With all but Harry and the king. The last Gendry had seen of Lord Stark was when he rode from Winterfell to see Harry knighted at King's Landing last year. The man looked very much the same since then; long brown hair stirring in the wind as it had been that day. His closely trimmed beard was shot with white, making him look older than his thirty-five years. He had a grim cast to his grey eyes. All the time Gendry found it hard to believe this was the man Harry said would sit before the fire in the evening telling him and Robb Stark and Jon Snow stories of the age of heroes and the children of the forest.

But then again, he was Gendry the bastard child of the king, while Hadrian was the true-born one. Despite how well Harry treated him, and all the love he was afforded by his brother, all he would be to others was a bastard.

The king's bastard, but a bastard all the same.

"Aye," Harry said, moving through the wood as though it were natural. For Gendry it was anything but. "I've rode from King's Landing to greet you most swiftly. And I've brought a feast of game for your kitchen staff to prepare! I will speak my business, and later tonight we will sup well."

"Where are the children?" Gendry wanted to roll his eyes. No matter how many times he and Harry rode to Winterfell, if the Starks weren't assembled as a unit upon greeting them, then the Lord of the family thought something terrible must have happened.

"I've no idea, good-uncle. I think I glimpsed Robb trying to find my aunt, but can't be sure." The smirk on Harry's face told them both that he was actually quite sure he had sent the stoic Starks into a tizzy. And he was probably enjoying it too.

There! The wink. Yes, Gendry grinned despite himself and laughed silently as Lord Stark cast a disparaging look their way. Yes, Harry was indeed loving the fact that he had gotten the drop on the ever vigilant Starks.

Of course, they didn't look the part of anything royal. Harry had even abandoned his royal circlet to his horse's pouch almost as soon as they had taken to the Kingsroad.

Hadrian removed his cloak with a flourish that Gendry never seemed to understand before sitting down beside the pool with his back to the weirwood. Gendry refused to look up at the trees, feeling the eyes watching him, but he did his best to ignore them.

"My dear good-uncle, I have heavy news for your heart." Harry started, his voice cracking a little in contrast to the heartiness and cheek he had displayed earlier.

"Then out with it, nephew." Lord Stark bid him, "You're not seven anymore, so there will be no stumbling or mincing of words. I'm a Northern man, and through our veins run the blood of the First Men. You will speak plainly."

"For winter is coming…" Harry finished in place of Lord Stark, his voice hard and strange like in the few times he had to speak seriously with Lord Eddard Stark. It always surprised Gendry just how stern and cold Harry could look when next to his uncle. It always surprised Gendry how easily Harry could become Hadrian, blood of both Stark and Baratheon.

And those words…

Winter is Coming…

Ugh, they gave Gendry the chills, as they always did.

The Stark words.

He knew for as far back as he could remember that every noble house had its words.

Ours is the Fury… Hadrian had been the one to teach him that one. The words of their father's house… of Harry's house… of the royal family's house…

But never _his_ house…

Winter is coming, said the Stark words. Not for the first time, Gendry tried to digest what a strange people the northerners were.

"I am sorry, Uncle Ned, but Jon Arryn is dead." There was no way to soften the blow, so Hadrian told his uncle straight.

Lord Stark's eyes found Hadrian's, then Gendry's own, and for once Gendry had no clue how to feel about the Warden of the North. Even Gendry— with Lord Stark's distant treatment of him and unsympathetic attitude to boot— could tell how hard the brunt of their ill news hit him. In his youth, Lord Stark had fostered at the Eyrie, and the childless Lord Jon Arryn had become a second father to him and his fellow ward, Robert Baratheon— Gendry's own father.

Jon Arryn was practically Gendry's grandfather in all but blood. The man had treated him fairly if a little distant because of his work schedule. When the Mad King Aerys Targaryen had demanded the Lord Stark and their father's heads, the Lord of the Eyrie had raised his moon-and-falcon banners in revolt rather than give up the fostered sons he had pledged to protect.

And one day fifteen years ago, Lord Stark's second father had become a brother as well, as he and Jon Arryn stood together in the sept at Riverrun to wed two sisters, the daughters of Lord Hoster Tully.

"Did he suffer?" Lord Stark's voice sounded dry and a little tight.

"No," Harry assured, "One day he was fit as a fiddle— old, but still very much spry— and the next he was overtaken with illness."

Harry's expression held a dark edge to it, almost as if he suspected something he did not want to tell Lord Stark, but for the life of him, Gendry did not know what.

Or why his half-brother looked at him so quickly before looking away.

"My good-grandfather in all but blood was taken quickly. Pycelle was useless, always has been, yet even Maester Dreary couldn't do a blasted thing. Eventually… they brought the milk of the poppy, so Grandfather Arryn did not linger long in pain."

"That is some small mercy, I suppose," Lord Stark said, sighing heavily as Gendry's eyes could see the grief mounting on his face.

"What of Lysa?" Lord Stark asked suddenly. "And Jon's boy, young Robert. What word of them?"

Hadrian gave a great sigh himself, "The woman went mad with grief. She fled all the way to the Eyrie up in the Vale just after his funeral, only baby Robyn and a small guard in tow. My father and his royal party ride here to Winterfell to seek you out. I rode here as hard as I could to tell you all this in person, even though the others wanted to send a raven before riding themselves. I shot it from the skies as soon as I caught up to it."

"Of course you did," Lord Stark smirked lightly, but it did nothing to hide the sorrow in his eyes. "The Eyrie is high and lonely, and it was ever her husband's place, not hers. Lord Jon's memory will haunt each stone. The woman needs the comfort of family and friends around her."

"I sent a raven to the Vale, asking the lords to keep an eye on her and little Robyn. Ser Brynden waits in the Vale, too. Lord Jon named him Knight of the Gate."

Eddard nodded, remembering hearing as much. "Brynden will do what he can for her, and for the boy. That is some comfort at least."

"Then after all business is done, you may ride to her." Harry urged. "Take my good cousins and fill her halls with noise and shouts and laughter. That boy of hers needs other children about him, and the woman should not be alone in her grief."

There was that look again, Gendry noticed. The look as if Harry had swallowed something foul. He had only ever seen that look on Hadrian's face when Harry was talking to the queen on a particularly vexing day.

"Would that I could," Lord Stark said, wiping his hand down his face to hide tears Gendry had already observed. "But I was paying attention to your earlier words, nephew. The king is riding to Winterfell to seek me out."

And for the first time since they had arrived, a smile broke across Lord Eddard Stark's face. Gendry wished he could share his joy. But his father held little love for him outside of his talents with a forge and hammer; war-hammer or anvil-striker, it was all the same to the king.

Strength in the Baratheon blood, and all that…

"I thought that might please you." Harry said, giving his own little smile. "Send word to Uncle Benjen. Let him know that my father has gained another stone in weight, at least."

"That makes four stone since ruling the Seven Kingdom, nephew. Has he tired of trying to bash your thick skull in with his war-hammer in reenactments of the Battle of the Trident?"

"No, but he has grown annoyed that his queen-wife won't let him do the same with her precious Joffrey."

"Of course the Lannister woman wouldn't want a hair touched on the boy's golden head." Only here, in the vastness of the North and the stone safety of Winterfell, had Gendry ever heard Lord Stark utter such treacherous words.

But even still, Gendry would never betray Harry's trust by telling anyone anything that was said in front of him between anyone. They could plan to murder his father, and he would pretend an insect had taken his full interest in the meantime.

"Nonetheless, Ben will want to be here." Eddard agreed with his good-nephew. "I shall tell Maester Luwin to send his swiftest bird. How many in Robert's party?"

"I left before they did, so it is probably the standard of a hundred knights, at the least, with all their retainers, and half again as many free-riders. My father's queen-wife and my siblings travel with him, as well as her Lannister brothers."

Gendry watched Lord Stark grimace at that. It was as well-known as the Battle of the Trident and the Sacking of King's Landing that there was small love between the Warden of the North and the queen's family. The Lannisters of Casterly Rock had come late to his king-father's cause, when victory was almost certain, and Lord Stark had never forgiven them for it.

"Well, if the price for Robert's company is an infestation of Lannisters, so be it. It sounds as though Robert is bringing half his court."

"Aye, that it does. Where the king goes, the realm follows. Yet, I don't think you'll be seeing Baelish or Varys anytime soon."

"Hopefully, no. I could do well without Littlefinger and the Spider to also sour my castle in addition to the Lannisters."

"Good, because I want them to take the Black as soon as I'm king."

"Easy said. Harder still to accomplish, Your Highness."

"My father will keep an easy pace for the sake of the others," Hadrian said as he got up and dusted off his trousers.

"It is just as well. That will give us more time to prepare."

"While I cannot speak for Joffrey, the little shit that he is, I can say that Mrycella and Tommen would be happy to see their Stark cousins again after a whole year."

Eddard "Ned" Stark nodded before he and Hadrian "Harry" Baratheon walked alongside each other with Gendry three respectful steps behind.

"There must be a feast, of course, with singers, and Robert will want to hunt." Eddard went on as Harry smiled. "And when is the day of my good-nephew's wedding?"

"When the royal party rides back to King's Landing." Harry smiled, and Lord Stark looked proud.

"Then we shall toast many things when your father arrives. Some sad, but more of good fortune. I shall send Jory south with an honor guard to meet Robert on the Kingsroad and escort them back. Gods, how are we going to feed them all and your expanding father? On his way already, you said? Damn the man. Damn his royal hide."

Harry only laughed and gave countenance to his uncle.

And Gendry remained as he was. Bastard, brother, squire, and listener. He guarded his brother from harm, and was loved as dearly. It showed when Harry wrapped an arm around his shoulders and had him join their merry banter. For once, even Lord Stark didn't seem to mind as they caught Jon Snow— the honorable Lord Stark's _own_ bastard son— passing them by.

And it was this side of Hadrian "Harry" Eddard Baratheon that Gendry Waters liked best. The side of him that didn't have anything to be serious about. The side of his half-brother that loved him openly and wholly without question.

The side of his brother that would not have to kill in the years to come only to keep a throne that was rightfully his to sit upon…

* * *

 **So let me know what you all think. Leave a review, and tell me something! Do you love it? Do you hate it? What would you like to see in the next chapter? Leave a review, and let me know!**

 **-Traban16**


	2. Hadrian's Values, Harry's Heart

**Chapter 2: Hadrian's Values, Harry's Heart**

* * *

Never before had Kevan seen his brother drink so heavily as he did this day.

And never before had he been so confused as to the reason of said drinking.

As Tywin poured himself another goblet of wine— his eighth yet— Kevan watched his brother pace the lord's study of Casterly Rock. Usually his brother Tywin was the very essence of calm and collected, but today he seemed frayed and worried.

And Kevan had no clue why.

"Two months from now will have made seventeen years since the rebellion that saw my daughter made a queen…" Tywin muttered before emptying his goblet with a gulp. "And eighteen years since Prince Rhaegar had absconded with the She-Wolf, Lyanna Stark…"

Ah… That was the reason for the drinking, Kevan surmised.

The birth of a single person that had marked the Lannister family only ruling the Seven Kingdoms by proxy, and never by right or law.

The birth of Hadrian Eddard Baratheon, or Harry as some called him.

Harry, Kevan snorted with detached amusement. Such a common sickening nickname.

Much like Ned for the Lord Stark of Winterfell…

Nevertheless, that birth had been acknowledged by all as undeniably Robert's child sired by his hastily married wife Lyanna Stark immediately after the Tourney at Harrenhal. Then mere months later, when the men had ridden to the Vale for the funeral of Jon Arryn's second wife, the Prince had stolen the new Lady Baratheon from her journey to Winterfell to be with her lord father, Rickard Stark, and baby brother, Benjen Stark.

Seven above, that abduction had changed everything… Especially since Lyanna had already been with child from Robert.

Kevan remembered… He and damn near everyone else in Harrenhal had heard the two coupling like two beasts trying to rip each other's throats out…

Tywin turned to the one person he would admit to trust without reservation.

"Tried as I might, the boy has survived everything we've thrown at him. Assassination after assassination thwarted by Kingsguard. Poison after poison mysteriously never working. Cersei even pushed the little wolfspawn from the Red Keep, and he survived!"

"That was her?" Kevan recalled the Falling of the Crown Prince. It was rather miraculous that Prince Hadrian had survived a drop from the White Sword Tower, only to be found an hour later in the cellars of the castle playing with dragon bones without a single scratch on him. Kevan thought it was the work of magic, but the prince had never shown anything else since then.

Of course, the prince had never fallen since then either. Or at least, that was what everyone had thought happened that day, but now Kevan was being told that his own niece had tried her hand at murder.

Tried and failed, being the stressed point he got from this little reveal of information. No wonder Tywin had never told him. It was an embarrassment his brother was probably only letting slip with the copious amount of wine in him.

"I think you've had enough, brother." Kevan said as he took the again half full goblet from Tywin.

"I prayed for days that the Stranger would take that blasted boy… But, I suppose, the Mother's mercy was just a little stronger…" Tywin stood abruptly, but did not waver or lose his balance. "We need him either cowed, or out of the picture. His very existence has thrown things out of our control for too long. If he lives to see his nameday in two months, then our family is doomed to see a wolfspawn rule from the Iron Throne."

"What does his nameday have to do with that? He could still be killed." Kevan put forward, if only to give his brother some measure of hope. After all, a sword was much more effective at killing than any poison or tower accident.

"Because, dear brother, if Prince Hadrian reaches King's Landing after King Robert has settled his business with Lord Stark in the North," Tywin began, and Kevan thought for a moment that despite his ruddy face and half-lidded eyes that Tywin was not nearly as drunk as he was led to believe, "then the boy will actually marry Margaery Tyrell and unite the Reach with the Iron Throne, Dragonstone, Storm's End, and the North."

"Oh." Was all Kevan could say as he was reminded that the prince was indeed to marry Margaery Tyrell in some time. It had been such a footnote to him, one that Tywin obviously remembered well with distain, that he hadn't bothered to care.

But now he saw it. The might of the Reach chained to the Iron Throne was nothing to sniff at in these times. Yet, it would have been a great boon to the Lannister claim to the throne if that might had been tied to Cersei's child, Joffrey, instead to Lyanna's child, Hadrian.

"And we're not even considering the Vale, who love Hadrian as much as they loved Jon Arryn. Even the dim-witted child of Jon Arryn loves Harry like a brother, and now as Lord of the Vale, the boy would never turn against Hadrian if we did make claims on the throne." Kevan said, more to himself than his brother.

"The Dorne aren't exactly against him either with how vocal he is about seeing old crimes punished…" Kevan went on as he recalled his last time at court when the Mountain had stirred Hadrian's irk. The Hound was Joffrey's sworn shield, but everyone knew that if push came to shove, the man would fight for Hadrian in defense of Cersei's spoiled boy.

"That means that our only allies if we made claim to the throne would be the Ironborn… or commoners from across the Narrow Sea." Tywin sneered so hard that Kevan thought he might retch.

"The Targareyn girl and her brother still live across the Narrow Sea." Kevan reminded his brother, "Kill the brother, take the girl, and we could have all the old loyalist come out of the shadows. Robert's reign has been weak and peaceful, and Cersei has asserted her power every chance she could if Prince Hadrian or Jon Arryn couldn't stop it. That was how we got Ser Boros Blount and Ser Meryn Trant on the Kingsguard in place of the ones who joined Hadrian's Griffguard."

"They are temporary replacements as the others trained the Crown Prince and ride with him. Blount and Trant might as well be bags of flour for all the good they'll be to us once the boy sits on the throne. Which, I'll remind you, might happen as soon as he is married to the Tyrell girl." Tywin spat on the floor, making Kevan cringe as he stepped back.

"Even so, the prince will need to sire heirs of his own. We could have maids give the girl moon tea in secret for a few years. Seven above, we could even have _her_ poisoned to death unlike the prince."

"That would only make the boy take another wife, and possibly tie even _Dorne_ to him next in marriage."

"Then just the moon tea, then. It'll give us more time to amass power in King's Landing, and to put the crown in more debt to our family."

Even despite how little he was helping things along, Tywin still turned to him with an approving look.

"Indeed, that could work," Tywin murmured so low that Kevan barely heard him.

"Then let us see how many tourneys and festivals we can squeeze out of the months to come with all the excellent news greeting the kingdom. A new Hand, the prince marrying, and more things yet to come."

Tywin looked as though he could not be prouder of his brother, and Kevan basked in that pride.

* * *

His father, Lord Eddard Stark, stood high on a walkway, alongside his mother Catelyn. Both were watching as his eldest brother, Robb, coach him, the second youngest child, Bran, in archery lessons for the day. By them was their cousin Harry, Harry's half-brother Gendry Waters, and Bran's own half-brother Jon Snow.

Bran's fifteenth attempt was off target, hitting a barrel to the side. Jon and Harry shared a look as Jon patted Bran on the shoulder. The boy was growing frustrated with his practices as his shoulders slumped in defeat.

"Go on. Father's watching, as is your mother," Jon said as Bran looked to where his parents stood, both smiling down upon him from their walkway. He then pulled the arrow back in the bow, his arm shaking slightly. He however took a deep breath and steadied his arm. Releasing the arrow, it struck the target, if slightly off center.

Dropping his arms, Bran frowned and sighed in disappointment. They had been at this all day since breaking fast, but he had only improved by a bare margin.

"Not bad, Bran," Robb complimented his younger brother with a smile, "I see Harry's been giving out his little hints again."

"They help," Bran said, his face flushing in the cold air of the north. He tried to remain steady with his bow, to prove to is brothers that Harry was not wasting his time with him, but as the arrow flew high and wide Jon and Robb stifled their laughter.

Rickon, the youngest Stark amongst the pack of wolves, had no such reservations as he laughed loudly while Bran's head hung in embarrassment and shame.

"And which of you was proclaimed marksman at the age of ten?" all the boys turned to see their lord father giving them a stern look from the walkway above. Then they saw Harry give a suspicious look to a barrel behind them before pulling out his light bow and notching an arrow from the quiver on his back so quickly that they barely saw it happen. Gendry moved a few paces to the side, smirking as he watched Harry take aim at the air in front of Bran with his weapon at the ready. When no one answered Bran's father, he could hear his father and mother laughing above them.

"Keep on practicing Bran," Harry encouraged, "You'll be better than this lot in no time flat."

Bran nodded vigorously before he raised his bow with another arrow notched. He took care to aim and steady his breathing, but before he could fire his arrow, another arrow flew from out of nowhere directly behind Bran. Yet, before it could reach the target, Harry's arrow flew from Bran's other side and skewered the first arrow before embedding itself deeply into the far wall. Everyone turned first to Arya, who was in shock that her arrow had been shot out of the air mid-flight. Bran had even dropped his bow in shock, and would have made to chase after his sister for her attempt to embarrass him, but even he recognized the amount of talent Harry must have had to not only hit another arrow in mid-flight, but to do so on purpose.

Walking over to Bran, Harry placed a hand on his head, "Keep with your practice Bran, and when you get it well enough, I'll teach you how to do what I just did. Your brothers had no talent at all for it. True by light of the Seven, they were even worse than you when they were your age. Not much better now though, either."

Robb and Jon scowled at their cousin's back, making Bran snicker to himself before looking up into Harry's face. Harry was facing Arya now, and when she turned to flee, Gendry was already blocking her escape.

"And Arya, what have I told about that arrogance. It's the Tully blood, I swear, because if it were the wolfsblood you'd be helping Bran instead." Harry shook his head, giving Arya a piercing look, "Not another lesson from me until you learn some humiliate. For every knight of the realm, there is a better one just waiting to be born. It's the reason we have tourneys, to showcase skill and comradery between ourselves instead of fighting to the death in war after war."

Arya hung her head at Harry's words, but Bran was sure it was more because Harry wouldn't teach her anymore archery tricks rather than the scolding he just gave her. She ran off, no doubt to make more mischief or to sulk in her room about how the only person who was willing to show her anything she thought brilliant was now punishing her.

Harry had his hand on Bran's head again, ruffling his hair in a brotherly manner, "And mind you Uncle Ned, I was a marksman at the age of eight, if you recall."

"Aye," Bran's father called back with a deep chuckle, "but you couldn't wield your father's hammer. Tried as you might, I seem to recall a little princeling who stood no taller than my knee dragging King Robert's warhammer along wherever you went. Couldn't even lift it an inch from the ground, but could pull it with him as though it were a toy wagon everywhere he went."

Bran looked up into Harry's face again, this time seeing his cheeks flush as he hid his face form Bran's father and mother, who were both laughing openly at him. Bran understood though. He had only stopped trying to use the legendary greatsword, Ice, a few months ago in exchange for lessons in archery and the sword.

Bran looked up at his parents once more, though this time their attention was to the approaching Ser Rodrick who when close enough to them stood stiffy near them holding a missive and the raven it came from.

Bran looked to Harry for what was being said, but cousin Harry's face had become drawn and stony as though all the joy had been sucked from the world. In moments like this, Bran reminded himself that his cousin was only seventeen years old, because he looked so much older.

Especially when Harry and his father locked eyes they were now, seeming to have entire conversations without words.

Bran's father nodded once to Ser Rodrick, then to Harry before nodding to Bran, who felt himself swallow a breath for reasons he didn't know.

"Come along, Bran." Harry said, Gendry now returning to his side as they all swept from the training yard. "A deserter has been reported from the Night's Watch. He was found south of the Wall, near Lake Long. You are to saddle your own horse. Come."

Oh. That was the reason for the sour faces on his cousin and father. Bran felt his chest grow tight.

This would be the first time he had been deemed old enough to go with his lord father and his brothers to see the king's justice done.

* * *

It was the ninth year of summer, and the seventh of Bran's life.

Bran felt himself moving, but it was all rather numb. It wasn't until well into their ride to where the man was being held that Bran came out of his haze.

And it was to a conversation Harry and his father were having that grabbed his interest.

It grabbed his interest because he heard the name of Rhaegar Targaryen, the dead prince who had abducted Harry and his mother, Bran's aunt Lyanna Stark, and started the war which saw Harry become a prince himself when his father the king won the Iron Throne.

The day was progressing clear and cold, with a crispness that hinted at the end of summer. They set forth at half-day to see a man beheaded, twenty in all, and Bran rode among them, nervous with excitement. The man had been taken outside a small holdfast in the hills.

"Do you remember the Tower of Joy, Uncle Ned?" Harry asked in a distracted manner.

"Aye…" Bran's father, Ned, answered just as unfocused as his nephew. Beside them rode Ser Rodrick and Ser Dayne on the sides of their sworn lord and prince respectively.

"I remember it well… I remember the two years my mother and I were kept there. I remember hearing whispers of this battle and that skirmish… But what I remember most is the day _you_ came for us. Not my father, Uncle Ned, _you_."

"Your father had to settle King' Landing after what the bloody Lannisters did in his name. It wasn't right, but it needed doing." The Lord of Winterfell retorted, but Harry didn't seem to care. He looked like it meant the world to him, if only for that one moment. The next moment, Harry was staring into the face of Ser Dayne.

"Aye, but it was still you. You who broke the siege of Storm's End that now sits Uncle Stannis as its lord. You who came down on the garrison at Summerhall where now Uncle Renly has his lavish parties to brighten up the gloom."

"Speak your point, nephew." His father told Harry, who glanced back at him with a far-away look in his eye.

"Do you remember what Ser Dayne did the moment he heard that Prince Rhaegar fell in battle at the Trident?" Bran flinched as he saw all the adult men, including his lord father and Ser Rodrick, stiffen so much that their horses reared up. They had to quickly settle their horses, but now Bran's father was staring hard at Harry. Harry was instead staring hard at the forlorn look on Ser Dayne's face.

"Indeed," his father began frostily, a tone Bran had only ever heard when someone questioned his honor or Jon's parentage, "I remember the men he slew in front my very eyes the moment he heard his prince fell. He was not alone though. Might the Old Gods and the New lay to rest the souls of Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Gerold Hightower."

"My sworn brothers are long dead, Lord Stark." Ser Dayne said in a subdued tone, looking old and tired, "They followed their sacred vows to the end, and died as some of the best knights of the Kingsguard. They are well in rest by now…"

"Aye, they are…" his father looked away, and even Ser Rodrick gave a stiff nod.

"I remember something too, nephew." His lord father went on after a heavy pause made the men anxious. "I recall that the only thing that saved the surviving three— myself, Ser Dayne here, and Howland— was you yelling out the tower window."

"True, true," Harry chuckled, but it seemed a bitter laugh to Bran, "I screamed my little head off for someone— _anyone_ — to come for my mother. There had been so much blood back then… And the screams of her pain…"

"And her last words…" Bran's father looked haggard for a moment, nodding as his eyes went distant before fleeting over to look at Jon, Theon, and Robb as though they were strangers to him. His jaw drew tight and he tore his gaze from the three just as swiftly as he had looked upon them.

"And the vows that we've kept…" Ser Dayne had said so quietly that, if Bran had not been paying attention as well as riding beside the Sword of the Morning with the bastard squire Gendry Waters and cousin Harry, he would not have heard the words leave his lips.

Glancing around, Bran saw that only cousin Harry and his lord father had heard as they shared a nod. Everyone else was looking away uncomfortably while giving their party some space.

"Bran!" he jumped, hearing Robb hiss his name so suddenly, "Come and ride with us. Leave father, Harry and Ser Dayne to lead our way. Squire Gendry, you as well. Give my cousin some space."

Bran moved as soon as Robb spoke, steering his horse toward the middle of the pack in order to reach his brothers and Theon. In contrast, Gendry waited defiantly for the order to come from first Ser Dayne and then from cousin Harry. Gendry looked smug, but Robb looked cold and furious. Their looks disappeared however once they all saw cousin Harry pull his steed up between Bran's father and Ser Arthur Dayne while the three spoke in subdued tones.

* * *

When they arrived, Robb thought the man sentenced to death was a wildling, his sword sworn to Mance Rayder, the King beyond-the-Wall.

It made Bran's skin prickle to think of it.

He remembered well the hearth tales Old Nan told them. The wildlings were cruel men, she said, slavers and slayers and thieves. They consorted with giants and ghouls, stole girl children in the dead of night, and drank blood from polished horns. And their women lay with the Others in the Long Night to sire terrible half-human children.

But the man they found bound hand and foot to the holdfast wall awaiting the king's justice was old and scrawny, not much taller than Robb. He had lost both ears and a finger to frostbite, and he dressed all in black, the same as a brother of the Night's Watch, except that his furs were ragged and greasy.

As they came upon the holdfast, the breath of man and horse mingled, steaming, in the cold air as his lord father had the man cut down from the wall and dragged before them.

Robb and Jon sat tall and still on their horses, with Bran between them on his pony, trying to seem older than seven, trying to pretend that he'd seen all this before.

A faint wind blew through the holdfast gate. Over their heads flapped the banner of the Starks of Winterfell: a grey direwolf racing across an ice-white field.

Bran's father sat solemnly on his horse, long brown hair stirring in the wind. His closely trimmed beard was shot with white, making him look older than his thirty-five years. He had a grim cast to his grey eyes, and he seemed not at all the man who would sit before the fire in the evening and talk softly of the Age of Heroes and the Children of the Forest. Harry looked much the same in that regard, Bran knew. His cousin was not smiling or even somber about this occasion. He sat tall on his black stallion, eyes intense and intent as he watched the man dragged before them.

They had taken off the faces of his father and cousin, and now what remained were Lord Stark of Winterfell and Prince Hadrian of the Seven Kingdoms.

There were questions asked and answers given there in the chilling day wind, but afterward Bran could not recall much of what had been said. Finally, his lord father turned to Hadrian, who gave a nod, and two of his guardsmen dragged the ragged man to the ironwood stump in the center of the square.

Prince Hadrian dismounted his steed, and the squire Gendry Waters, Hadrian's own bastard brother brought forth Hadrian's sword. "Lily," that sword was called. Bran knew that Hadrian had a twin sword to it, a companion one that was called, "Prongs". His cousin was rarely ever seen with both unless he had just killed a troop of outlaws or been across the Narrow Sea with the full might of his Griffsgaurd behind him.

But Lily was an amazing sword. Almost as amazing as the greatsword of Bran's father. That sword was named "Ice". However, unlike Ice that was as wide across as a man's hand and taller even than Robb, Lily was only half the size and width so it still settled comfortable on Harry's waist where he rested the sword in its scabbard. Bran wanted his own sword like Ice or Lily one day. The blades were Valyrian steel, spell-forged and dark as smoke.

Nothing held an edge like Valyrian steel.

He knew Lily and Prongs had once been a greatsword from some disgraced house he could not recall. How Harry's father, King Robert, had commanded it given to his son almost immediately. And almost immediately Harry had it melted down and made into the two swords, Lily and Prongs.

Harry peeled off his gloves and handed them to Gendry.

"Speak your name, deserter." Harry commanded without preamble.

"I am G-Gared, ser." The man spoke hoarsely, looking up to meet his eyes.

"That is _Your Highness_ , deserter. You speak to the _crown prince_!" Gendry snarled fiercely, and the named dead man, Gared, hung his head low and dared not meet Harry's gaze again.

"Y-Yes, Your Highness." He choked on his words trying to get them out.

"Why did you abandon the Wall, deserter Gared." Harry asked plainly.

"I know I broke my oath… For over forty years I manned the Wall and served as a Ranger to the Night's Watch… And I know I am a deserter. I should have gone back to the Wall to warn them but… I saw what I saw… And what I saw were the White Walkers." Gared finished, looking up at Harry with a strange determination. Harry arched a brow, but on the inside he felt cold and numb at the mention of the Others. "People need to know, Your Highness. And if it pleases you… Pl-Please, can get word to my family. Tell them I am no coward… Tell them I'm sorry for disgracing my sacred vows… Tell them I did it for a reason…"

"Why did you not inform your Lord Commander, Jeor Mormont, about the Walkers?" Harry asked, feeling the words leave him as he needed answers.

"They would have killed me for leaving behind Will and Ser Royce. But I knew I could go south of the Wall… That maybe the North still remembered the White Walkers… It was all I could hope for… The others at the Watch think wildings are our biggest threat. But the Wall wasn't built for no wildings."

"What happened to these people you spoke of? Will and Ser Royce? Did you abandon them?"

"They were dead already. The frozen dead wildings Will found had come alive and attacked us. I escaped only at the expense of Will…" Gared looked deeply ashamed at that, but was relieved that Harry was listening to him. Or at least that he was allowed to speak. The two guardsmen holding Gared didn't look too pleased that the prince was actually entertaining the man's nonsense.

"And your mission beyond the Wall? It was tracking these wildings that this Will boy found dead before they became White Walkers themselves?" Harry inquired, sending a stern look to the noises made by the guardsmen and his own brother Gendry.

"Aye, they were raiders from the Haunted Forest." Gared nodded slowly, recalling that fateful mission with a haunted look in his eyes. "Lord Commander Mormont sent us on a rangin' into the Haunted Forest, going after 'em. It was the three of us; me, Ser Waymar and Will. Mormont gave the command to Ser Waymar, even though he was by far the least experienced of us three among the Watch. Mormont counted me and Will among his best men."

"Then why give the command to Ser Waymar Royce?"

"The lad felt it was his due to have a command because he was a knight." Gared said, and Harry understood.

"And the Old Bear accepted because he didn't want to offend Yohn Royce of the Vale." Harry sighed, shaking his head.

"Aye, Waymar was Yohn Royce's son. He joined the Night's Watch because he felt he'd never get wealth or land with his family."

"Of course the fool did…" Harry muttered, but motioned for Gared to continue.

"For nine days, we tracked the wildlings, first going north, then northwest, then north again. The weather kept getting colder. On the ninth day, Will said he thought we were being watched… and I felt it too. We finally caught up with the wildlings, and Will sneaked near their camp to get their numbers. He came back, reporting that the wildlings were dead, probably killed by the cold… At least, that's what he thought…"

"And that's when you three all went back, the wildings gone, but the wrights fell upon you?" Harry inquired as Gared nodded, "The White Walkers killed Ser Royce and Will, and you fled from them."

"Aye," Gared said, hanging his head.

"Stopping not at the Wall?" Harry asked.

"A-Aye."

"Stopping not at _Castle Black_?"

"Aye…"

"Stopping not at Last Hearth?"

"A-Aye, Your Highness…" There was something wet hitting the snow beneath their feet now. Harry felt it was a waste for the man to cry when he had failed so spectacularly if he wanted to warn people of the White Walkers. It made Harry angry, but he held back his rage in order to show the man the error of his ways before beheading him. It was the least Harry could do since the man had warned him of the return of those blasted Others.

It was what he had been waiting all these years to come to pass.

Finally, after so long waiting and watching the world around him… the Stranger would _finally_ take him with open arms…

"Stopping not at _Winterfell_?" Harry pressed on, trying hard to keep his voice level.

"A-Aye…"

Harry gave a nod to the guardsmen, who seemed all too happy the farce was at an end as they forced Gared's head down onto the hard black wood of the ironwood stump in the center of the holdfast's square.

"Your family will know of your desertion." Harry promised, "But they will also know of why."

Harry made his way over proper to the execution block, standing beside the dead man as he recited, "In the name of my father, Robert of the House Baratheon, the First of his Name, King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, by the word of Hadrian of the House Baratheon, Prince of Dragonstone, Crown Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, I do sentence you to die."

He unsheathed his sword Lily and held it with both hands high above his head.

* * *

It seemed colder on the long ride back to Winterfell, though the wind had died by then and the sun was higher in the sky. Bran rode with his brothers, well ahead of the main party, his pony struggling hard to keep up with their horses.

Bran could not forget what he had just witnessed. It played and played again in an endless lopp before his mind's eye.

The crown prince Hadrian— his cousin Harry— had taken off the man's head with a single sure stroke. Blood sprayed out across the snow, as red as summer wine. One of the horses reared and had to be restrained to keep from bolting.

Bran could not forget the blood. There had been just so much blood…

The snows around the stump had drank it eagerly, reddening as he watched. The head bounced off a thick root and rolled. It came up near Greyjoy's feet. Theon found everything amusing. He laughed, put his boot on the head, and kicked it away. Harry had sent him a stern look, but the boy had kept on laughing.

"Ass," Jon had muttered, loud enough so Greyjoy could hear. Theon had shot Jon a hateful look, but didn't dare anything more than that with Bran's father—Jon's own father—and the prince so near.

Jon had put a hand on Bran's shoulder then. "You did well," Jon told him solemnly.

His father had told him that one day, justice would fall to him, yet Bran wasn't sure he could do what Harry had just done. He knew he would have to, one day, but hopefully not until he could work up the nerve to see so much fresh blood again.

 _So much blood_ …

"The Others take his eyes," Robb swore while Bran was quiet. "The man died well. Race you to the bridge, Snow?"

"Done," Jon smirked, kicking his horse forward. Robb cursed and followed, and they galloped off down the trail, Robb laughing and hooting, Jon silent and intent. The hooves of their horses kicked up showers of snow as they went.

Bran did not try to follow. His pony could not keep up. He had seen the ragged man's lifeless eyes, and he was thinking of them now. After a while, the sound of Robb's laughter receded, and the woods grew silent again.

So deep in thought was he that he never heard the rest of the party until his father moved up to ride beside him.

"Are you well, Bran?" he asked, not unkindly

"Yes, father," Bran replied, but hesitated to look up. Finally, when he did, his lord father loomed over him like a giant wrapped in his furs and leathers, mounted on his great warhorse. "Robb says the man died bravely, but Jon says he was afraid."

"What do you think?" his father asked.

Bran thought about it. "Harry says that bravery only comes to a man when he's afraid. Is he right, father? Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?"

"Harry speaks true, Bran. That is the only time a man can be brave, and that is when he is at his strongest." his father told him.

"Hold." Came Gendry's voice from where he rode with Harry and Ser Dayne. Ser Martell and Ser Darry were at the rear of the party, and Brienne of Tarth was still in Winterfell.

Bran and his lord father pulled their horses' bridles and peered out in the middle of the road. Lying in the middle of the path was the bloodied corpse of a stag. Its throat was ripped open and missing an antler, but strangely its body was untouched aside from the maggots. A little way off, was the corpse of a direwolf the size of his father's warhorse. Imbedded in its belly was the missing antler of the stag. Bran watched Harry at the head of the party as his eyes survived the area with a strange intensity.

"Well now," Harry sighed as he and the others dismounted their horses. Bran hurried to be at Harry's side as he inspected the scene more closely. "should I be worried that this means my family is going to kill each other. What say you, good uncle?"

"It would certainly seem that way…" Bran's father commented dryly as he came up next to Harry and Ser Dayne with Bran himself and Gendry just behind them. The smell of the rotting corpses was horrid, and Bran wasn't sure how much more he could take.

"Well, its female, which means that Aunt Catelyn has much to answer for when we arrive in Winterfell. And much reason to be protected, I suppose…"

"And how do you know it is a female, good nephew?" his father asked quietly.

"Because of the five pups hiding in the reeds over there." Harry replied, casting a pointer finger over to where, indeed, five pups were mewing softly in the reeds. The pups were watching them all intensely.

Ser Darry and Ser Martell collected the pups from the riverbank, and Bran watched as Harry's eyes softened on them before turning back to his father.

"Rare to see a direwolf south of the wall." Harry stated plainly, drawing himself up tall, "It's a bad omen all its own."

"Why?" Bran asked.

"A direwolf this far south is a sure sign that winter is coming, and fast if they are this close to Winterfell." Harry explained, "That means that their natural prey north of the Wall is scarce enough to make them come south in search of food."

"Meaning the coming winter will undoubtedly be a harsh one." His lord father surmised with a grimace.

"What do we do with them?" Robb asked as he pointed at the pups.

Bran's father looked at the wolf pups and sighed. Again he looked tired and old.

"They won't survive without their mother. Better a quick death," Eddard said to Theon, who nodded.

"Right then. Look away Bran," Theon said curtly.

"NO!" Bran protested, as he picked up a pup.

"Put away your blade, Greyjoy." Harry commanded, as he watched Robb pick up two others in defense. Theon bristled at the order and glared at him. Harry arched an eyebrow before an apologetic look crossed Theon's face and he gave a stiff bow at the waist.

Harry then continued, "Keep the pups, good uncle. They'll serve you well in the future. Direwolves are fiercely loyal to their pack. And the Stark family have been their pack for generations."

"These are not common dogs, Your Highness. It's dangerous to keep beasts such as these around," Hullen, the stable master of Winterfell said, "It'd be more of a mercy to kill them now than when they turn on us."

Bran looked pleadingly to his father, but only received a furrowed brow in return.

"My lord father, Ser Rodrik's bitch whelped not long ago. She'll have enough milk. The litter only had two pups," Robb insisted stubbornly.

"Aye, and the bitch would tear them apart when the pups try to nurse from her," Their father replied with a stony look.

"Lord Stark," Jon said, slightly stilted at having to call their father by his formal title, "There are five pups; three male and two female."

"Aye, what of it?" their lord father asked.

"You have three sons, and two daughters. The direwolf graces the banners of House Stark. It is a sign from the Old Gods that you take them into your service." Jon explained, making all the others fall hushed. It was never good to ignore a direct sign from the Gods such as Jon had pointed out.

Bran watched as the expression on his father's face changed from solemn to something unreadable. Bran looked to Harry for answers, but Harry had the same look on his face. The household guard exchanged glances, and Harry's knights traded murmurs amongst themselves about the pups.

At last, Bran's father spoke again. "You want no pup for yourself?"

"I am a Snow, father." Even Bran could tell his words were intentional, "There are no banners for Snow. The Stark family, however, have banners that proudly display the direwolf. They have been there for thousands of years. I am no Stark, father."

The Lord of Winterfell— for the face of Bran's father fell away— regarded Jon and Harry carefully, while Robb hastened to fill the silence that fell amongst the party.

"I will nurse him, lord father," Robb promised, "With a towel and warm milk, I'll have my pup suckle until he's old enough not to."

"Me too!" Bran echoed his older brother, while the pup in his arms made to lick his face.

Lord Stark gave his three sons each a hard look, then cast the same at Harry, "Easier to say, harder to do. I will not have you harass the servants to do the duty you have promised me here. If you do not take proper care of them you will be punished for it, and if they die, you will bury them yourselves. You must train them. You _will_ train them, as Farlen and his daughter will have nothing to do with these monsters. And all the Gods help you if you mistreat them. They will sooner tear off a limb that sulk away if you kick them or mistreat them."

Bran nodded eagerly as he carried his pup in his cloak, Robb passed a pup to Ser Rodrik, for Rickon, as Theon carried the final two for the Stark girls. As they went back, Jon heard whimpering and crouched down to see a small white pup cowering in a small hollow. He picked it up and stared at it.

"That one's yours, Snow," Theon chuckled, "The runt of the litter."

Harry laughed softly at Jon's expression, turning around to get back to where Gendry was holding their horses.

At least until a small black direwolf pup with green eyes came from the hedges to nibble at the leg of Harry's stallion. The stallion bucked, and Gendry kicked the pup away. It went next for Gendry, who yelped in pain as the pup got a hold on his ankle. The men laughed at the little pup's feistiness, but Harry did not look amused to Bran. He walked purposely over to the pup, picking it up by the scruff of its neck and flicking it on the nose. The direwolf pup snarled and barked at him, sounding more adorable than menacing. Harry flicked it again and this time it mewed in pain while pawing at its injured nose.

"You can bite horses, but only when I command it." Harry said frankly, "But never again will you bite my brother."

The pup yipped at him, clearly defiant with the sudden command of a bigger being. Bran could see that this pup was bigger than the others, maybe the oldest of its litter. It was clearly the most mature thus far, having already learned to hide and attack its prey.

Maybe it wasn't even from the litter of pups that they had just found. After all, if one pack of direwolves had made it this far, why couldn't others?

Inside his cloak, his new pup whimpered softly and quivered into his clothes almost as if to tell Bran that he was right.

"Quite the handle you have on the young wolf, Harry." Bran's father observed with a strained smile.

"Maybe I'll tame and raise a fawn next, good uncle."

"Then you can bring them both back to Dragonstone to play nice with Sirius."

"Hmm… maybe you're on to something—" Harry pondered, but Bran's father had paled drastically.

"Hadrian, no! Sirius would rip them both apart for his next meal!"

"Maybe you're right…" Harry said, still holding the dark wolf pup even as he mounted his stallion. He smirked widely, looking a little sinister to Bran. "But we'll never know until we try… Isn't that right… Severus?"

The pup merely glared at Harry before sneezing and pawing at its nose again.

* * *

 **So, in this chapter we get to see Harry as he is with his family, but also how he handles his responsibilities as a prince of the seven kingdoms. We also get a hint at the hate other characters have for him and how his presence in Westeros has changed the Game of Thrones world for better or worse.**

 **How much more has Harry changed simply by existing? How many enemies does he have? How many allies?**

 **All good questions... for another time.**

 **With that said, let me know what you think! Love it, or hate: leave a review and let me know! And if you like what you've read, please be on the lookout for more!**


	3. Hadrian's Foresight

**Chapter 3: Hadrian's Foresight**

* * *

Her brother held the gown up for her inspection. "This is beauty. Touch it. Go on. Caress the fabric."

Dany touched it. The cloth was so smooth that it seemed to run through her fingers like water. She could not remember ever wearing anything so soft. It frightened her.

She pulled her hand away. "Is it really mine?"

"A gift from the Magister Illyrio," Viserys said, smiling. Her brother was in a high mood tonight. "The color will bring out the violet in your eyes. And you shall have gold as well, and jewels of all sorts. Illyrio has promised. Tonight you must look like a princess."

A princess, Dany flushed at the thought. She had forgotten what that was like.

Perhaps she had never really known.

"Why does he give us so much?" she asked. "What does he want from us?"

For nigh on half a year, they had lived in the magister's house, eating his food, pampered by his servants. Dany was thirteen, old enough to know that such gifts seldom come without their price, here in the free city of Pentos.

"Illyrio is no fool," Viserys snapped curtly. He was a lean young man with nervous hands and a feverish look in his pale lilac eyes. "The magister knows that I will not forget my friends when I come into my throne."

Dany said nothing. Magister Illyrio was a dealer in spices, gemstones, dragonbone, and other, less savory things. He had friends in all of the Nine Free Cities, it was said, and even beyond, in Vaes Dothrak and the fabled lands beside the Jade Sea. It was also said that he'd never had a friend he wouldn't cheerfully sell for the right price. Dany listened to the talk in the streets, and she heard these things, but she knew better than to question her brother when he wove his web of dreams.

His anger was a terrible thing when roused. Viserys called it "waking the dragon."

Her brother hung the gown beside the door. "Illyrio will send the slaves to bathe you. Be sure you wash off the stink of the stables. Khal Drogo has a thousand horses, tonight he looks for a different sort of mount."

He studied her critically. "You still slouch. Straighten yourself."

He pushed back her shoulders with his hands. "Let them see that you have a woman's shape now." His fingers brushed lightly over her budding breasts and tightened on a nipple.

"What about the letters from—? _Ahh_!" Her words turned to a gasp when Viserys pinched the nipple between his fingers.

"You will not fail me tonight, sweet sister. If you do, it will be _ruin_ for you. You don't want to wake the dragon, do you?" His fingers twisted her nipple, the pinch cruelly hard through the rough fabric of her tunic.

"Do you?" he repeated.

"No," Dany whimpered meekly.

Her brother smiled.

"Good. And never again mention _that letter_ in my presence. _Never_." He touched her hair, almost with affection. "When they write the history of my reign, sweet sister, they will say that it began tonight."

* * *

When he was gone, Dany went to her window and looked out wistfully on the waters of the bay. The square brick towers of Pentos were black silhouettes outlined against the setting sun. Dany could hear the singing of the red priests as they lit their night fires and the shouts of ragged children playing games beyond the walls of the estate. For a moment she wished she could be out there with them, barefoot and breathless and dressed in tatters, with no past and no future and no feast to attend at Khal Drogo's manse.

Somewhere beyond the sunset, across the narrow sea, lay a land of green hills and flowered plains and great rushing rivers, where towers of dark stone rose amidst magnificent blue-grey mountains, and armored knights rode to battle beneath the banners of their lords.

The Dothraki called that land Rhaesh Andahli, the land of the Andals.

In the Free Cities, they talked of Westeros and the Sunset Kingdoms.

Her brother had a simpler name. "Our land," he called it. The words were like a prayer with him. If he said them enough, the gods were sure to hear. "Ours by blood right, taken from us by treachery, but ours still, ours _forever_. You do not steal from the dragon. Oh no, the dragon remembers."

And perhaps the dragon did remember, but Dany could not. She had never seen this land her brother said was theirs, this realm beyond the narrow sea. These places he talked of, Casterly Rock and the Eyrie, Highgarden and the Vale of Arryn, Dorne and the Isle of Faces, they were just words to her.

Viserys had been a boy of eight when they fled King's Landing to escape the advancing armies of the Usurper, but Daenerys had been only a quickening in their mother's womb.

Yet, sometimes Dany would picture the way it had been, so often had her brother told her the stories. The midnight flight to Dragonstone, moonlight shimmering on the ship's black sails. Her brother Rhaegar battling the Usurper in the bloody waters of the Trident and dying for the woman he loved. The sack of King's Landing by the ones Viserys called the Usurper's dogs, the lords Lannister and Stark. Princess Elia of Dorne pleading for mercy as Rhaegar's heir was ripped from her breast and murdered before her eyes. The polished skulls of the last dragons staring down sightlessly from the walls of the throne room while the Kingslayer opened Father's throat with a golden sword.

She had been born on Dragonstone nine moons after their flight, while a raging summer storm threatened to rip the island fastness apart. They said that storm was terrible. The Targaryen fleet was smashed while it lay at anchor, and huge stone blocks were ripped from the parapets and sent hurtling into the wild waters of the Narrow Sea. Her mother had died birthing her, and for that her brother Viserys had never forgiven her.

She did not remember Dragonstone either. They had run again, just before the Usurper's brother set sail with his new-built fleet. By then only Dragonstone itself, the ancient seat of their House, had remained of the Seven Kingdoms that had once been theirs. It would not remain for long. The garrison had been prepared to sell them to the Usurper, but one night Ser Willem Darry and four loyal men had broken into the nursery and stolen them both, along with her wet nurse, and set sail under cover of darkness for the safety of the coast of Braavos.

She remembered Ser Willem dimly, a great grey bear of a man, half-blind, roaring and bellowing orders from his sickbed. The servants had lived in terror of him, but he had always been kind to Dany. He called her "Little Princess" and sometimes "My Lady," and his hands were soft as old leather. He never left his bed, though, and the smell of sickness clung to him day and night, a hot, moist, sickly sweet odor. That was when they lived in Braavos, in the big house with the red door. Dany had her own room there, with a lemon tree outside her window. After Ser Willem had died, the servants had stolen what little money they had left, and soon after they had been put out of the big house.

Dany had cried when the red door closed behind them forever.

They had wandered since then, from Braavos to Myr, from Myr to Tyrosh, and on to Qohor and Volantis and Lys, never staying long in any one place. Her brother would not allow it. The Usurper's hired knives were close behind them, he insisted, though Dany had never seen one.

At first the magisters and archons and merchant princes were pleased to welcome the last Targaryens to their homes and tables, but as the years passed and the Usurper continued to sit upon the Iron Throne—with a true prince for a son beloved by the people, they said—doors closed and their lives grew meaner. Years past they had been forced to sell their last few treasures, and now even the coin they had gotten from Mother's crown had gone. In the alleys and wine sinks of Pentos, they called her brother "the beggar king."

Dany did not want to know what they called her.

"We will have it all back someday, sweet sister," he would promise her. Sometimes his hands shook when he talked about it. "The jewels and the silks, Dragonstone and King's Landing, the Iron Throne and the Seven Kingdoms, all they have taken from us, we will have it back." Viserys lived for that day.

All that Daenerys wanted back was the big house with the red door, the lemon tree outside her window, the childhood she had never known.

And once, not long ago, there had been a single letter with a golden wax seal. She had been the one to receive it from a slave girl, seeing as it was addressed to her. She stared at the letter for a long while, memorized that she would even receive such a thing from anyone. On the wax seal had been a flying hog with many warts. The letter, when she finally had courage enough to read it, explained how she would be welcomed back to the Seven Kingdoms. Her brother, too!

All they needed to do was give up their claims to the throne.

For days she had read the letter in secret. She had dreamed of staring out at the waters of a different bay. One that would see her turn to the breathtaking landscape of what her brother called, "home". Where children played in fine clothes and no one would allow her to beg on the street for her next meal from kingdom to kingdom. Dany dreamt of hearing the songs of minstrels who sung praises of her brothers and parents and all the Targaryen kings and queens of old. She longed for that land of green hills and flowered plains and great rushing rivers, where towers of dark stone rose amidst magnificent mountains, and armored knights rode to battle beneath the banners of their lords.

But, then, her brother found the letter.

And after he had read the letter… the dragon had awoken…

Daenerys hoped to never again wake the dragon. That letter had been the first and last time.

However, there had been more letters after the first. Dany didn't red what they said, but she knew they came. It was only a half a year ago that the letters had stopped coming. For nearly three years they had persisted, but now there were no more gold wax seals with flying warty hogs on them to be seen. The letters had stopped, even after they had been finding their way to her no matter where she was in the free cities.

That had been around the time Illyrio found them… Dany shuddered without meaning to. It was another reason she felt uncomfortable around the hefty man…

* * *

There came a soft knock on her door.

"Come," Dany said, turning away from the window. Illyrio's servants entered, bowed, and set about their business. They were slaves, a gift from one of the magister's many Dothraki friends. There was no slavery in the free city of Pentos. Nonetheless, they were slaves. The old woman, small and grey as a mouse, never said a word, but the girl made up for it. She was Illyrio's favorite, a fair-haired, blue-eyed wench of sixteen who chattered constantly as she worked.

They filled her bath with hot water brought up from the kitchen and scented it with fragrant oils. The girl pulled the rough cotton tunic over Dany's head and helped her into the tub. The water was scalding hot, but Daenerys did not flinch or cry out. She liked the heat. It made her feel clean.

Besides, her brother had often told her that it was never too hot for a Targaryen. "Ours is the house of the dragon," he would say. "The fire is in our blood."

The old woman washed her long, silver-pale hair and gently combed out the snags, all in silence. The girl scrubbed her back and her feet and told her how lucky she was.

"Drogo is so rich that even his slaves wear golden collars. A hundred thousand men ride in his khalasar, and his palace in Vaes Dothrak has two hundred rooms and doors of solid silver." There was more like that, so much more, what a handsome man the khal was, so tall and fierce, fearless in battle, the best rider ever to mount a horse, a demon archer.

Daenerys said nothing. She had always assumed that she would wed Viserys when she came of age.

For centuries the Targaryens had married brother to sister, since Aegon the Conqueror had taken his sisters to bride. The line must be kept pure, Viserys had told her a thousand times; theirs was the kingsblood, the golden blood of old Valyria, the blood of the dragon. Dragons did not mate with the beasts of the field, and Targaryens did not mingle their blood with that of lesser men. Yet now Viserys schemed to sell her to a stranger, a barbarian.

When she was clean, the slaves helped her from the water and toweled her dry. The girl brushed her hair until it shone like molten silver, while the old woman anointed her with the spiceflower perfume of the Dothraki plains, a dab on each wrist, behind her ears, on the tips of her breasts, and one last one, cool on her lips, down there between her legs. They dressed her in the wisps that Magister Illyrio had sent up, and then the gown, a deep plum silk to bring out the violet in her eyes. The girl slid the gilded sandals onto her feet, while the old woman fixed the tiara in her hair, and slid golden bracelets crusted with amethysts around her wrists. Last of all came the collar, a heavy golden tore emblazoned with ancient Valyrian glyphs.

"Now you look all a princess," the girl said breathlessly when they were done.

Dany glanced at her image in the silvered looking glass that Illyrio had so thoughtfully provided.

A princess, she thought, but she remembered what the girl had said, how Khal Drogo was so rich even his slaves wore golden collars. She felt a sudden chill, and gooseflesh pimpled her bare arms.

Her brother was waiting in the cool of the entry hall, seated on the edge of the pool, his hand trailing in the water. He rose when she appeared and looked her over critically.

"Stand there," he told her. "Turn around. Yes. Good. You look..."

"Regal," Magister Illyrio said, stepping through an archway. He moved with surprising delicacy for such a massive man. Beneath loose garments of flame-colored silk, rolls of fat jiggled as he walked. Gemstones glittered on every finger, and his man had oiled his forked yellow beard until it shone like real gold.

"May the Lord of Light shower you with blessings on this most fortunate day, Princess Daenerys," the magister said as he took her hand. He bowed his head, showing a thin glimpse of crooked yellow teeth through the gold of his beard.

"She is a vision, Your Grace, a vision," he told her brother. "Drogo will be enraptured."

"She is still too skinny," Viserys snipped critically. His hair, the same silver-blond as hers, had been pulled back tightly behind his head and fastened with a dragonbone brooch. It was a severe look that emphasized the hard, gaunt lines of his face. He rested his hand on the hilt of the sword that Illyrio had lent him, and said, "Are you sure that Khal Drogo likes his women this young?"

"She has had her blood. She is old enough for the khal," Illyrio told him, not for the first time. "Look at her. That silvergold hair, those purple eyes... she is the blood of old Valyria, no doubt, no doubt... and highborn, daughter of the old king, sister to the new, she cannot fail to entrance our Drogo." When he released her hand, Daenerys found herself trembling.

"I suppose," her brother said doubtfully. "The savages have queer tastes. Boys, horses, sheep..."

"Best not suggest this to Khal Drogo," Illyrio said.

Anger flashed in her brother's lilac eyes. "Do you take me for a fool?"

The magister bowed slightly. "I take you for a king. Kings lack the caution of common men. My apologies if I have given offense." He turned away and clapped his hands for his bearers.

* * *

The streets of Pentos were pitch-dark when they set out in Illyrio's elaborately carved palanquin. Two servants went ahead to light their way, carrying ornate oil lanterns with panes of pale blue glass, while a dozen strong men hoisted the poles to their shoulders. It was warm and close inside behind the curtains. Dany could smell the stench of Illyrio's pallid flesh through his heavy perfumes.

Her brother, sprawled out on his pillows beside her, never noticed. His mind was away across the Narrow Sea.

"We won't need his whole khalasar," Viserys spoke barely above a whisper, but he had their full attention. His fingers toyed with the hilt of his borrowed blade, though Dany knew he had never used a sword in earnest. "Ten thousand, that would be enough, I could sweep the Seven Kingdoms with ten thousand Dothraki screamers. The realm will rise for its rightful king. Tyrell, Redwyne, Darry, Greyjoy, they have no more love for the Usurper than I do. The Dornishmen burn to avenge Elia and her children. And the smallfolk will be with us. They cry out for their _true_ king."

He looked at Illyrio anxiously. "They do, don't they?"

"They are your people, and they love you well," Magister Illyrio said amiably. "In holdfasts all across the realm, men lift secret toasts to your health while women sew dragon banners and hide them against the day of your return from across the water. My agents tell me this, even now. In fact, we will see one of them soon enough."

Dany had no agents, no way of knowing what anyone was doing or thinking across the Narrow Sea, but she mistrusted Illyrio's sweet words as she mistrusted everything about Illyrio.

Her brother was nodding eagerly, however. "I shall kill the Usurper myself," he promised. He, who had never killed anyone in his life. "I shall kill him the same as he killed my brother Rhaegar on the Trident. And Lannisters will all be put to sword in King's Landing. And the Kingslayer… _for what he did to my father_ … He will suffer worst of all."

"That would be most fitting," Magister Illyrio said. Dany saw the smallest hint of a smile playing on his full lips, but her brother did not notice. Nodding, he pushed back a curtain and stared off into the night, and Dany knew he was fighting the Battle of the Trident once again.

The nine-towered manse of Khal Drogo sat beside the waters of the bay, its high brick walls overgrown with pale ivy. It had been given to the khal by the magisters of Pentos, Illyrio told them.

The Free Cities were always generous with the horselords.

"It is not that we fear these barbarians," Illyrio would explain with a smile. "The Lord of Light would hold our city walls against a million Dothraki, or so the red priests promise... yet why take chances, when their friendship comes so cheap?"

Their palanquin was stopped at the gate, the curtains pulled roughly back by one of the house guards. He had the copper skin and dark almond eyes of a Dothraki, but his face was hairless and he wore the spiked bronze cap of the Unsullied. He looked them over coldly. Magister Illyrio growled something to him in the rough Dothraki tongue; the guardsman replied in the same voice and waved them through the gates. Dany noticed that her brother's hand was clenched tightly around the hilt of his borrowed sword. He looked almost as frightened as she felt.

"Insolent eunuch," Viserys muttered as the palanquin lurched up toward the manse.

Magister Illyrio's words were honey. "Many important men will be at the feast tonight. Such men have enemies. The khal must protect his guests, yourself chief among them, Your Grace. No doubt the Usurper would pay well for your head."

"Oh, yes," Viserys said darkly. "He has tried, Illyrio, I promise you that. His hired knives follow us everywhere. I am the last dragon, and he will not sleep easy while I live."

The palanquin slowed and stopped. The curtains were thrown back, and a slave offered a hand to help Daenerys out. His collar, she noted, was ordinary bronze. Her brother followed, one hand still clenched hard around his sword hilt. It took two strong men to get Magister Illyrio back on his feet.

Inside the manse, the air was heavy with the scent of spices, pinchfire and sweet lemon and cinnamon. They were escorted across the entry hall, where a mosaic of colored glass depicted the Doom of Valyria. Oil burned in black iron lanterns all along the walls. Beneath an arch of twining stone leaves, a eunuch sang their coming.

"Viserys of the House Targaryen, the Third of his Name," he called in a high, sweet voice, "King of the Andals and the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm. His sister, Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of Dragonstone. His honorable host, Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of the Free City of Pentos."

They stepped past the eunuch into a pillared courtyard overgrown in pale ivy. Moonlight painted the leaves in shades of bone and silver as the guests drifted among them. Many were Dothraki horselords, big men with red-brown skin, their drooping mustachios bound in metal rings, their black hair oiled and braided and hung with bells. Yet among them moved Braavos lords and sellswords from Pentos and Myr and Tyrosh, a red priest even fatter than Illyrio, hairy men from the Port of Ibben, and lords from the Summer Isles with skin as black as ebony. Daenerys looked at them all in wonder... and realized, with a sudden start of fear, that she was the only woman there.

Illyrio whispered to them. "Those three are Drogo's bloodriders, there," he said. "By the pillar is Khal Moro, with his son Rhogoro. The man with the green beard is brother to the Archon of Tyrosh, and the man behind him is Ser Jorah Mormont."

The only named one of the men caught Daenerys. "A knight?"

"No less." Illyrio smiled through his beard. "Anointed with the seven oils by the High Septon himself."

"What is he doing here?" she blurted.

"Some trifling affront," Illyrio told them, "He sold some poachers to a Tyroshi slaver instead of giving them to the Night's Watch. Absurd law. A man should be able to do as he likes with his own chattel. Now he serves as a messenger for us here into the walls of the Seven Kingdoms."

"I shall wish to speak with Ser Jorah before the night is done," her brother said. Dany found herself looking at the knight curiously. He was an older man, but still strong and fit. Instead of silks and cottons, he wore wool and leather. His tunic was a dark green, embroidered with the likeness of a black bear standing on two legs.

And in his hand was a single letter with a golden wax seal…

She was still looking at this strange man from the homeland she had never known and his golden letter when Magister Illyrio placed a moist hand on her bare shoulder.

"Over there, sweet princess," he whispered, "there is the khal himself."

Dany wanted to run and hide, but her brother was looking at her, and if she displeased him she knew she would wake the dragon. Anxiously, she turned and looked at the man Viserys hoped would ask to wed her before the night was done.

The slave girl had not been far wrong, she thought. Khal Drogo was a head taller than the tallest man in the room, yet somehow light on his feet, as graceful as the panther in Illyrio's menagerie. He was younger than she'd thought, no more than thirty. His skin was the color of polished copper, his thick mustachios bound with gold and bronze rings.

"I must go and make my submissions," Magister Illyrio said. "Wait here. I shall bring him to you."

Her brother took her by the arm as Illyrio waddled over to the khal, his fingers squeezing so hard that they hurt. "Do you see his braid, sweet sister?"

Drogo's braid was black as midnight and heavy with scented oil, hung with tiny bells that rang softly as he moved. It swung well past his belt, below even his buttocks, the end of it brushing against the back of his thighs.

"You see how long it is?" Viserys said. "When Dothraki are defeated in combat, they cut off their braids in disgrace, so the world will know their shame. Khal Drogo has never lost a fight. He is Aegon the Dragonlord come again, and you will be his queen."

Dany looked at Khal Drogo. His face was hard and cruel, his eyes as cold and dark as onyx. Her brother hurt her sometimes, when she woke the dragon, but he did not frighten her the way this man frightened her.

"I don't want to be his queen," she heard herself say in a small, thin voice. "Please, please, Viserys, I don't want to, I want to go home."

"Home?" He kept his voice low, but she could hear the fury in his tone. "How are we to go home, sweet sister? They took our home from us!" He drew her into the shadows, out of sight, his fingers digging into her skin.

"How are we to go home?" he repeated, meaning King's Landing, and Dragonstone, and all the realm they had lost.

Dany had only meant their rooms in Illyrio's estate, no true home surely, though all they had, but her brother did not want to hear that. There was no home there for him. Even the big house with the red door had not been home for him. His fingers dug hard into her arm, demanding an answer.

"I don't know," she said at last, her voice breaking. Tears welled in her eyes.

"I do," he said sharply. "We go home with an army, sweet sister. With Khal Drogo's army, that is how we go home. And if you must wed him and bed him for that, you will."

He smiled at her. "I'd let his whole khalasar fuck you if need be, sweet sister, all forty thousand men, and their horses too if that was what it took to get my army. Be grateful it is only Drogo. In time you may even learn to like him. Now dry your eyes. Illyrio is bringing him over, and he will not see you crying."

Dany turned and saw that it was true. Magister Illyrio, all smiles and bows, was escorting Khal Drogo over to where they stood. She brushed away unfallen tears with the back of her hand.

"Smile," Viserys whispered nervously, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword. "And stand up straight. Let him see that you have breasts. Gods know, you have little enough as is."

Daenerys smiled prettily, and stood up straight.

* * *

 **Not exactly what I wanted to write, but something I needed to throw into the story as I was going back through the chapters I had already planned out and the ones I had written. This look into Daenerys life at this point in time was necessary to explain things I have planned for later in the story. The "red letters" aren't that major to the story, but they are very important to Daenerys at this point in her life as they were her only source of happiness after the old man with the "red door" died. Just like the "letter" was very important to Harry when he got them to be accepted into Hogwarts.**

 **Now then, there may be more chapters like this sprinkled throughout the story. Like Chapter Five will be a more personal look into the brotherly relationship shared between Harry and Joffrey.**

 **If anyone has any questions or anything, just leave it in a REVIEW or send me a direct message.**

 **If you like it, REVIEW! If you hate it, REVIEW!**

 **Next chapter for this story will be out on September 1st.**

 _ **Chapter Four: Hadrian's Father**_

 **Hope everyone is enjoying the story so far! Until next time, See Ya!**


	4. All Hail, Hadrian's Father!

**Chapter 4: All Hail, Hadrian's Father!**

* * *

Winterfell was a myriad of Ned's people falling over one another in order to prepare his castle for the arrival of the Royal Family. He had the cooks check everything twice to be sure there was enough for the royal entourage to feast upon for as long as they stayed. Wine bottles and mead kegs were tapped in preparation for the many drinks Robert would no doubt inhale himself, let alone the ones in preparation for the feasts to come. Maids and servants cleaned the rooms to see them sparling while blacksmiths and carpenters crafted and repaired feasting wares. People made sure their finest clothes were ready for the royal party that would soon arrive.

Ned himself was not among any of that at the moment. For right now he was with his lady-wife, Catelyn, as they both went in search of the second son, Bran.

And when Cat found him, she'd have his hide and Harry's hide too for all this trouble.

Staring up at the rooftops, Ned heard Catelyn swear to the Others when they finally spotted Harry and Bran sitting at the peak of one of the tallest towers. He had to steady her as she became weak at the thought their son might fall at any moment.

Ned simply kept the smile on his face from her view before she had his hide as well…

From where they stood, Ned could make up the fact that Harry and Bran seemed to be having a discussion of some sort. If he could climb even half as well as his son and nephew, Ned thought he'd like to join them on some of their private talks where on the wind could hear what was said.

Watching them more closely, the Lord of Winterfell noticed how Bran stood suddenly and began pointing off into the distance. He had started to jump up and down, and Ned had to steady Cat again for she grew faint once more. Harry snatched Bran before he could even jump twice and made him sit with what looked like a stern expression and sterner words. Bran looked apologetic, so Harry's expression softened. The two shared a small conversation before Harry seemed to bid Bran climb down. Cat breathed a sigh of relief at that, but then her breath was stolen when Harry jumped halfway down and landed on a perch before jumping again in a nearby carriage of hay. Luckily for his lady-wife, Bran climbed down with the utmost care, especially once he noticed that they, his parents, stood at the foot of the tower he was descending from.

"Bran Stark," his mother started, while Ned carefully made his expression stern, "You know you shouldn't climb the tower!"

Bran looked down at his feet and scuffed his boot on the ground.

"Sorry mother," he said guiltily.

Harry hid his smile as he came up to them. He opened his arms for a hug from his aunt, but Cat's expression was as cold as winter, making Harry's arms fall limp to his sides. "And your encouragements are not needed, Your Highness. I do not mind the way you tutor him with a bow or sword, but this is another matter entirely."

Harry shook his head, seeing that his aunt was being formal at the moment. Ned wanted to say something so Cat would see that Harry was just as much family as their own children, but saw that Harry could and would play her game at the moment. "I must inform you, Lady Stark, of how wrong you are. Ser Barristan Selmy himself taught me how to climb. He used the very skill himself when he rescued King Aerys the Second in the Defiance of Duskendale. He scaled the walls like a cat in the middle of the night in order to take back the Mad King."

Catelyn obviously did not recall the event, but Ned could hardly blame her. They had barely been teenagers then, and much had happened in the realm where she was, at the time, still a young lady of Riverrun with her father, brothers, and sister.

"Climbing is a good skill to have. One that not many knights or lords can boast." Harry placed a hand on Bran's head and ruffled his hair with a smile. "Bran may one day have to rescue me from a place like Duskendale. Or save himself, more likely. Gods be good, he'll just use it to impress some girls when he's a bit older."

Bran's face was red, and Ned suppressed a chuckle of his own when his lady finally allowed a smile to grace her beautiful face.

"If it is the will of the crown prince, heir to the Seven Kingdoms… Then I _suppose_ I can let it continue… _in utmost safety_." Her eyes sharpened on Harry, "I know you'll both do it again. I can't seem to stop it. Just keep him safe, Harry. That's all I ask."

"I will so long as he climbs under my watchful eye." Harry consented, then straightened up. "Now there are more pressing matters. My king-father and his royal party approaches. They should be here in a few hours. Bran saw them on the horizon flying the banners."

Ned swore under his breath, and swept away with his wife. Harry had a grin on his face as they departed. It probably amused him that his father could sneak up on the Lord of Winterfell half as easily as he could.

* * *

After a couple of hours making sure this was ready and taking an iron helm off his little Arya's head, Ned stood beside his lady-wife and Harry stood in front of the rest of the Winterfell host ready to greet the king's court. Ned's courtyard was a quiet place as everyone hurried into their designated places. When the shout came from the gate that Robert was approaching, Ned felt more than saw everyone including himself stand straighter. With Ice at his back and Lily at Harry's hip, Ned felt more secure than he wanted to say with all the approaching Lannisters.

Harry sighed once and stepped in front of Ned. He made no moves of disapproval. As crown prince, it was Harry's duty to greet his father before the Lord of Winterfell. Ned offered his nephew a supporting hand on the shoulder, and Harry gave back a small smile before readying himself to greet his father.

The sudden thunderous noise of hooves brought the courtyard to a hush, as the Royal contingent rode in. The visitors poured through the castle gates in a river of gold and silver and polished steel, three hundred strong, a pride of bannermen and knights, of sworn swords and free-riders. Over their heads a dozen golden banners whipped back and forth in the northern wind, emblazoned with the crowned stag of House Baratheon.

Ned knew many of the riders. There came Ser Jaime Lannister with hair as bright as beaten gold, and there rode Sandor Clegane in full black armor, and a dog-shaped helm clasped to his saddle as he displayed his terrible burned face. The tall boy beside him was the second prince, and that stunted little man behind them was surely the Imp, Tyrion Lannister. Ned noticed how Prince Joffrey looked at his eldest daughter, Sansa, who blushed ever so slightly. He also caught sight of the dour look his eldest son, Robb, gave their small interaction. Honestly, compared to the strong resemblance that Harry shared with Robert, Prince Joffrey looked more like Ser Jamie than anyone else.

The remaining riders took position in the courtyard, while the Royal Carriage stopped in the center. Behind the carriage road the most powerful man in Westeros. Flanked by two knights in the snow-white cloaks of the Kingsguard, Robert rode in just as tall and powerful as Ned remembered him on the Trident. He was fatter, surely, but with black hair that fell freely down to his shoulders, a face covered with a neatly trimmed beard that was speckled with grey, and his stern kingly expression, Ned felt that he knew this man better than he would have if not for Harry being born almost eighteen years ago. Strangely enough, however, Ned took in the appearance of a sword strapped at Robert's side, which left him bewildered, considering Robert had favored a warhammer for as far back as Ned could think on it.

Robert vaulted off the back of his warhorse with a familiar roar. As he did, everyone of Winterfell knelt, paying homage to the King of the Seven Kingdoms. The only one left standing was Harry, who smiled heartily at the sight of his father. His smile soon turned into a wince, because when Robert reached him, he grabbed his son in a bone-crunching hug. "Harry, my boy! Ah, but it is good to see that little shit face of yours." The king looked him over top to bottom, and laughed. "You've gotten taller still. Seven hells, stop growing on me, boy. Not even married yet, and damn near looking your king and father— _me, of all people_ —eye to eye! If I had my hammer here with me…"

"Peace, father! Peace!" Harry laughed before gesturing and moving to stand at his father's side, "Father, the whole of Winterfell kneels to your arrival. They have prepared feast and drink in eager for you to grace their halls."

"Still good with your honeyed words, boy. Haven't changed at all."

Robert then approached Ned, gesturing silently for Ned to rise. Seeing the hand, Ned rose, and as he did, so too did the rest of his people follow.

Ned bowed his head slightly, "Your Grace."

Robert silently regarded him for a long while. Ned took this time to study his best friend and marriage brother more closely still. Six and a half feet tall, Robert Baratheon towered over lesser men, and Ned recalled the days of when he donned his armor and the great antlered helmet of his House, he became a veritable giant. He'd had a giant's strength too, his weapon of choice a spiked iron warhammer that Ned could scarcely lift last he saw it. In those days, the smell of leather and blood had clung to him like perfume.

"You got fat," Robert stated flatly. Ned was jarred out of his observations by that.

Harry had to bite his tongue to stop himself from laughing. Ned would not allow himself to be seen shocked by Robert's bluntness. He instead gave obvious regard to belly that was protruding from Robert's tunic with a sharply raised eyebrow. A brief moment later, they both laughed while Harry grinned behind them.

Ned's laugh was cut short by him being caught unawares as he was captured in a bone-crunching hug. "Ned! Ah, it is good to see that frozen face of yours. A whole year since we've last seen each other! Others take the time, brother! Catelyn, come here woman!"

Robert embraced Catelyn like a long-lost sister. Then the children as if they were his own.

"And where's that bastard of yours? Jon, blasted boy, get here in front of me!" Robert boomed, smile wide on his face, "Let me have a look at you! Greyjoy, you too!"

Robert shook their hands before engulfing them both like his own sons.

"Seven blessings, you're all as frozen as Ned! You'll be drinking wine with me until warm and I can stand the thought of touching you!"

Robert then turned to face Ned again, his face ruddy with all the excitement he was causing himself. His tired eyes, which had black circles under them, were now dancing with life, "Where have you been, Ned? No ravens or visits this last year. I had your word I'd hear more of you than that."

"I've been busy guarding the North, Your Grace," Ned replied, "Winterfell, as always, is yours."

"Seven hells to that, Ned. Children, talk sense to your father. Come here so I can have a better look at all of you. Don't scurry away from me as soon as I turn my back!"

Whilst Robert was inspecting his children more critically, Ned focused his attention on Robert's own family; the Lannisters that came to Winterfell. He did not think he could stomach if Tywin had entered his lands, but the Old Gods were good to him for that was not the case.

Disembarking the carriage were young Myrcella and even younger Tommen, Harry's half-siblings. Prince Tommen was a chubby boy with longer than average blond hair that ran to his ears, and the typical Lannister green eyes, a duller shade than Harry's own vibrant emerald which the crown prince got strongly from both sides of his grandparental family. Princess Myrcella, however, was a near mirror image of Cersei when the queen was younger.

And Prince Joffrey, heir to Harry until Harry had children of his own, took mostly after Ser Jaime, with golden blond hair and Lannister green eyes. The prince had yet to dismount his horse, rather preferring to gaze around Winterfell with a slight sneer on his face. Ned felt his pride for the North well up inside him, but he knew the boy was clueless to the Northern way of keeping castles as more storage space for harsher times rather than fanfare and decoration like lords of the South did.

Finally, Queen Cersei Lannister disembarked from her royal carriage with a carefully crafted expression on her face, looking around before she approached Harry, Ned himself, and Catelyn.

Cersei offered her left hand for Eddard, because he would probably never be Ned to her as she was the second wife to their king— _their Robert_. Ned knelt in the snow to kiss the queen's ring, while uttering a quiet, "my Queen". Catelyn curtsied alongside him, "my Queen".

Harry was next as Ned watched him lightly grasp the Queen's hand, landing a ghost of a kiss on her ring. "Queen Cersei," Harry had said without any of the warmth he had greeted the others with. Ned could understand, though. She was the woman his father had to replace his mother and Ned's own sister. She would never be Harry's true queen, Lyanna would always hold that place in his heart. However, his nephew was not disrespectful when hanging on courtesy, and so still gave Queen Cersei her due in the fact that she was his step-mother. "A pleasure to see you once again. You look as radiant as ever."

"I'm sure I do, Prince Hadrian. Every time we meet, you look more a handsome man than the last, just as Prince Rhaegar did." Ned saw Harry's jaw tighten at that, his hand still clasping the queen's own. Cersei's smile grew, "Hopefully war and death wouldn't steal you away from the realm as it did the last crown prince."

Ned watched Harry's expression turn annoyed as he squeezed Cersei's hand painfully without effort. The woman yelped in surprise and pain, but could not get her hand free when she tried.

"And hopefully death wouldn't steal you away as it did _my queen-mother_ and Queen Rhaella before their rightful time. You do remember my mother, right? As my father's first wife and the last queen of the Seven Kingdoms, you should. You may want to be careful, Queen Cersei, after all those are _two_ examples we wouldn't want you to follow." At last, Harry released her hand, and the queen glared at him hatefully whilst nursing her injured appendage. Ned could only sigh. The queen and Harry hating each other was as common and well known as the Seven Kingdoms themselves. Though everyone knew it was more hate upon the queen's side as Harry was a constant reminder that she a second wife to Robert, and annoyance on Harry's part because he had to put up with Cersei's near-constant attitude toward him.

Harry then brushed past Cersei to greet his half-siblings. He hugged Tommen and Myrcella to him tight and spun them around as they giggled with glee.

Then he dragged Joffrey off his high horse and tussled his hair brotherly in front of everyone with a hearty laugh. Joffrey didn't like that, especially when everyone else started laughing along as Harry slapped him on the back a little to roughly after telling him to grow up and be a real man. Joffrey threw back that he was a prince, and Harry replied with a deadpan look. Joffrey's face grew enflamed, but Harry thrust out a hand, and told his younger brother—quite sternly—to clasp his hand like a real man. The two shook hands, and Joffrey only winced and whimpered a little as the two got into a contest of strength that Ned knew with certainly Harry was winning almost effortlessly. With that done, Harry pulled Joffrey forward and embraced his brother in a half-hug. Joffrey grumbled about it, a sour expression on his face as he half-heartedly patted Harry's back, but Ned hoped the young prince understood what Harry was trying to do for him.

No sooner had those two princes separated from their greeting than the king had said to his host, "Take me down to your crypt, Eddard. I would pay my respects. Hadrian, you come as well and respect your mother with me in my presence. Now, boy!"

Ned loved Robert for that, if only because it got them away from the Lannisters. He sent a silent look toward his wife, who sighed as she took up the pleasantries with the queen. Cat was amazing sometimes, simply gods-sent. Ned called for a lantern. No other words were needed.

The queen had begun to protest. They had been riding since dawn, she said loudly for all to hear her voice. Everyone was tired and cold, surely they should refresh themselves first. The dead would wait. She had said no more than that; Robert had looked at her, and her twin brother Jaime had taken her quietly by the arm, and she had said no more. Perhaps she was right, but only if Robert had not loved Lyanna as much as Ned himself knew the man did. Still, if that were the case, it would have been seen as good relations to make the trip to the crypts early and get it out of the way. It would please lesser lords in the South, but Ned would not have faulted a king if he decided it tedious enough to do so early.

That was, if Robert hadn't loved Lyanna even half as much as they all knew he did.

Even to this day.

* * *

They went down to the crypt, Ned and Robert together while Harry followed them like a shadow. The winding stone steps were narrow as Ned went first with the lantern.

"I was starting to think we would never reach Winterfell," Robert complained as they descended. "In the south, the way they talk about my Seven Kingdoms, a man forgets that your part is as big as the other six combined."

"I trust you enjoyed the journey, Your Grace?" Ned asked, but heard Robert snort.

"Bogs and forests and fields, and scarcely a decent inn north of the Neck. I've never seen such a vast emptiness. Where are all your people, Ned?"

"Likely they were too shy to come out," Harry jested.

Ned could feel the chill coming up the stairs, a cold breath from deep within the earth. "Kings are a rare sight in the north."

Robert snorted again. "More likely they were hiding under the snow. _Snow_ , Ned!"

"Late summer snows are common enough," Ned said. "I hope they did not trouble you. They are usually mild."

"The Others take your mild snows," Robert swore with a shiver. "What will this place be like in winter? I shudder to think."

"The winters are hard," Ned admitted. "But the Starks will endure. We always have."

"You need to come south more," Robert told him. "You need a taste of summer before it flees. In Highgarden there are fields of golden roses that stretch away as far as the eye can see. The fruits are so ripe they explode in your mouth! Melons they have, Ned! And peaches and fireplums, you've never tasted such sweetness. You'll see soon enough, I brought you some."

"Even in Dragonstone, uncle," Harry said with a lick of his lips, "with that good wind off the bay, some days are so hot under the volcanoes you can barely move."

"And you ought to see the towns, Ned! Flowers everywhere, the markets bursting with food, the summerwines so cheap and so good that you can get drunk just breathing the air. Everyone is fat and drunk and rich." Robert laughed and slapped his own wine belly a thump.

"And the girls, Ned!" he exclaimed again, his eyes sparkling. "I swear; women lose all modesty in the heat. They swim naked in the river, right beneath the castle. Even in the streets, it's too damn hot for wool or fur, so they go around in these short gowns, silk if they have the silver for some, and cotton if not. But it's all the same when they start sweating and the cloth sticks to their skin, they might as well be naked." The king laughed happily and so did Harry.

Robert Baratheon had always been a man of huge appetites, a man who knew how to take his pleasures. That was not a charge anyone could lay at the door of Eddard Stark. Yet Ned could not help but notice that those pleasures were now taking a toll on the king. Robert was breathing harder by the time they reached the bottom of the stairs, his face red in the lantern light as they stepped out into the darkness of the crypt.

"Your Grace," Ned said respectfully. He swept the lantern in a wide semicircle. Shadows moved and lurched. Flickering light touched the stones underfoot and brushed against a long procession of granite pillars that marched ahead, two by two, into the dark. Between the pillars, the dead sat on their stone thrones against the walls, backs against the sepulchres that contained their mortal remains. "She is down at the end, with Father and Brandon."

He led the way between the pillars and the two royals followed wordlessly, Robert shivering in the subterranean chill. It was always cold down here. Their footsteps rang off the stones and echoed in the vault overhead as they walked among the dead of House Stark. The Lords of Winterfell watched them pass. Their likenesses were carved into the stones that sealed the tombs. In long rows they sat, blind eyes staring out into eternal darkness, while great stone direwolves curled round their feet. The shifting shadows made the stone figures seem to stir as the living passed by. By ancient custom an iron longsword had been laid across the lap of each who had been Lord of Winterfell, to keep the vengeful spirits in their crypts. The oldest had long ago rusted away to nothing, leaving only a few red stains where the metal had rested on stone.

Harry had once asked if their swords should be replaced, but Ned always took it as a sign that they were relieved of their earthly duties and allowed into the peace of the afterlife. Harry had snorted with laughter back then as a little boy-prince, claiming that death was nothing but the next great adventure. Ned wondered if that meant those ghosts were free to roam the castle.

He hoped not.

Ned stopped at last and lifted the oil lantern. The crypt continued on into darkness ahead of them, but beyond this point the tombs were empty and unsealed; black holes waiting for their dead, waiting for him and his children.

He did not like to think on that.

"Here," he told his king. Robert nodded silently, knelt, and bowed his head. Harry mirrored him as he did the day after he had arrived in Winterfell.

There were three tombs, side by side. Lord Rickard Stark, Ned's father, had a long, stern face. The stonemason had known him well. He sat with quiet dignity, stone fingers holding tight to the sword across his lap, but in life all swords had failed him.

In two smaller sepulchers on either side were his children.

Brandon had been twenty when he died, strangled by order of the Mad King Aerys Targaryen only a few short days before he was to wed Catelyn Tully of Riverrun. His father had been forced to watch him die. He was the true heir, the eldest, born to rule.

Lyanna had only been nineteen, barely even a woman fully grown with all her surpassing loveliness. Ned had loved her with all his heart.

Robert had loved her even more. She had been his bride short of four years.

Harry had loved her best and brightest of all. She had been his mother for the first three years of his life.

"She was more beautiful than this," the king said after a silence. His eyes lingered on Lyanna's face, as if he could will her back to life.

Finally, he rose. "Ah, damn it, Ned, did you have to bury her in a place like this?" His voice was hoarse with remembered grief. "She deserved more than darkness…"

"She was a Stark of Winterfell, Your Grace." Ned said quietly. "This is her place."

"She should be on a hill somewhere!" Robert roared as old wounds bled anew, "Under a fruit tree, with the sun and clouds above her and the rain to wash her clean!"

"I was with her when she died," Ned reminded the king, his voice quiet but his tone firm. Robert deflated at the reminder. "She wanted to come home, to rest beside Brandon and Father."

He could hear her still at times. Promise me, she had cried, in a room that smelled of blood and roses. Promise me, Ned. The fever had taken her strength and her voice had been faint as a whisper, but when he gave her his word, the fear had gone out of his sister's eyes. Ned remembered the way she had smiled then, how tightly her fingers had clutched his hand as she gave up her hold on life, the rose petals spilling from her palm, dead and black. After that he remembered nothing. They had found him still holding her body, silent with grief. The little crannogman, Howland Reed, had taken her hand from his. Harry had cried for days on end, he was told later. Ned could recall none of it.

"I bring her flowers when I can," he said. "Lyanna was… fond of flowers. You remember."

"Aye, I do…" the king touched her cheek, his fingers brushing across the rough stone as gently as if it were living flesh. "I vowed to kill Rhaegar for what he did to her."

"You did," Ned reminded him.

"Only once," Robert spat bitterly. "In my dreams, I kill him every night," Robert admitted.

"A thousand deaths will still be less than he deserves." Harry sneered as he rose to his feet, and there was nothing Ned could say to that.

* * *

After a quiet, Eddard found his voice again, "We should return, Your Grace. Your wife will be waiting."

"The Others take my wife," Robert muttered sourly, but he started back the way they had come, his footsteps falling heavily. "And if I hear 'Your Grace' one more time, I'll have to knock your teeth in. We are more to each other than king and lord of this and that. You are my _brother_ , Ned. More than blood and marriage bond could ever tell."

"I had not forgotten," Ned replied quietly. When the king did not answer, he said, "Tell me about Jon."

Robert shook his head. "I have never seen a man sicken so quickly. We gave a tourney on Joffrey's name day. If you had seen Jon then, you would have sworn he would live forever. A fortnight later he was dead. The sickness was like a fire in his gut. It burned right through him."

Harry had told Ned just as much, but had shared with him a plot of poisons. Of course, Harry was only now reaching the prime of his youth. He was young and knew nothing of what old age hindered when sickness took hold of a man. Thankfully, Jon had not suffered.

Robert paused beside a pillar, before the tomb of a long-dead Stark.

"I loved that old man."

"We all did, Robert." Ned paused a moment, hoping that the sorrow he felt didn't color his voice.

"Aye, but he never had to teach you two whelps much, did he? Me though, do you remember me at sixteen, Ned?" Robert asked, chuckling to himself from memories passed, "All I wanted to do was crack skulls and fuck girls."

"Has that changed any, father?" Harry asked the king sardonically.

"Not one bit, boy! If Lyanna were here though, I think she'd have taken my cock and balls with her everywhere she went to ensure I'd have no bastards. Ha! And I'd have let her!" Robert boomed, but then stopped and his face turned serious.

"Jon wanted to tell me something…" Robert continued quietly, his expression grave, "Something he thought was important. The fool that I was, I said it could wait till I returned from the hunt. Never again… _never again_. When I returned, Jon was bedridden with a fever, and half-delirious… He left a note with Ser Barristan Semly, but I never made time to see it, and Barristan just stands there like the perfect knight he is waiting for me to ask about it. Jon kept mumbling that the seed was strong, whatever that meant. Not two weeks later, he died in his sleep. Half me thinks someone had it in for the old falcon…"

"Are you implying, father… That Jon Arryn was poisoned?" Harry asked with narrowed eyes and a drawn up expression. Harry had thought the same, even told Ned as much, but probably didn't think Robert would share his opinion. Ned could certainly see it, but thought it very unlikely. The part of him that did believe it, however, thought about the Lannister family the king married into. After all, Robert had put himself in a circle with the likes of Tywin Lannister and Gregor Clegane. There was bound to be foul play in Jon's passing because of the sudden nature of it if Ned was to believe and take serious focus on such a plot.

"I've no mind for figuring these things out, lad, but Varys had some words about the idea. Even Renly and Stannis were curious to why Grand Maester Pycelle sent Maester Colemon away when the man could have been of help in keeping the old man alive. Varys has more to say about it all, but he assured me it could wait until I returned to King's Landing."

Harry nodded once with solidarity. He was thinking, this Ned knew from the expression on his face.

Robert's gaze sharpened on Harry, and he looked as he did when they rode out for the Trident, "Hadrian, your wedding will keep you at the capital for a while, but tell me… If the Lannisters make even a whisper for my throne, how loyal are the men at Dragonstone?"

"They are loyal beyond question, father. Ser Seaworth has served well in my absence and writes to me every so often on the affairs of the island." Harry assured, standing straighter than before.

"Good." Robert nodded, "If things come to the worst, you'll have loyal men marching behind you. Ned and his family are kin, so they won't rise against you. And I'm sure Cat's family in the Riverlands will support you. Not to mention my brothers in their lands, the Vale loves you, and you're about to make marriage ties with the Reach, so you won't want for allies."

"You speak as if civil war is upon us." Ned said quietly, but he could understand the need to access the situation for if worst came to pass.

Winter is coming…

Robert snorted, however, waving Ned off. "I wouldn't be surprised, Ned. No… Not at all surprised… My gods-damned second wife is constantly trying to push more of the yellow-haired Lannister shits into key positions at court, and she even had the gall to suggest making _Joffrey_ my heir instead of Hadrian because Lyanna was never the stylized queen. I nearly knocked her teeth in, but Jaime was there and ushered her out before I could move around my desk. That woman… Others take her… I didn't fight and win a war only to see the kingdoms fall into another bloodbath not even twenty years afterwards because of her and her damn family. I like war, Ned, but I _know_ when peace needs stay!"

Ned felt a change of subject would stop Robert from turning so red with the thoughts of his Lannister wife.

"Catelyn fears for her sister. How does Lysa bear her grief?" He had heard from Harry, but maybe Robert had more recent news.

Robert's mouth gave a bitter twist. "Not well, in truth," he admitted. "I think losing Jon has driven the woman mad, Ned. She has taken the boy back to the Eyrie. Against my wishes. I had hoped to foster him with Tywin Lannister at Casterly Rock. Jon had no brothers, no other sons. Was I supposed to leave him to be raised by _women_?"

"I would sooner entrust a child to a pit viper than to Lord Tywin," Ned said in a deadpan tone.

"Aye, and the child would turn out loads better still, but the boy is six and sickly. Lord Tywin has experience dealing with… _that_ sort."

"Ah, there it is." Harry said, and appeared to be joining their conversation in truth, "You thought because Lord Tywin Lannister raised Tyrion so well to be… well, in truth, like you… that he'd do better with little Robert."

Robert only grunted in affirmation with that look in his eyes when he wanted a skin of wine.

"She has reason to grieve. Jon loved her much, and their son even better. Perhaps she feared losing her son as well. The boy is still very young. The fresh air of the Vale will do them both some good."

"Six, and sickly, and Lord of the Eyrie, gods have mercy," the king swore. "Lord Tywin had never taken a ward before. Lysa ought to have been honored."

"And yet it was a much greater dishonor you gave to her." Harry snipped, but Robert only glared at him for a fleeting moment.

"The Lannisters are a great and noble House. She refused to even hear of it. Then she left in the dead of night, without so much as a by-your-leave. Cersei was furious."

"I'm furious that you even _believed_ it was a good idea!" Harry exclaimed with his father's brand of anger. "I will write to the Vale myself… tonight… Lord Royce will watch over little Robert with his mother's presence in the Eyrie. The visiting lords can tutor him."

"You'd do better going yourself, boy." Robert said, "The lords of the Vale are all hunger to curry favor with the boy."

Harry nodded, "Maybe, but they all loved Jon Arryn even as he ruled from King's Landing. After a time, I will inspect the Vale again myself, and oversee young Robert until my attention is needed elsewhere."

Robert only waved his hand dismissively, the black circles under his eyes looking heavier. "See it done then, lad. I'd hate to offend the Vale after all the time Jon kept them in my pocket and out of my hair. Seven hells, I'll even let the boy keep the title of Warden of the East."

At the looks on their faces, because Ned imagined that Harry's expression of outrage matched his own, Robert laughed. The sound rattling among the tombs and bouncing from the vaulted ceiling. His smile was a flash of white teeth in the trim of the neatly kept black beard.

"Ah, Ned has made you too serious, boy." Robert put a massive arm around Ned's shoulders.

The words came from Ned's mouth without preamble. "You would have ruined relations with the Vale beyond repair with the slight against them, Robert. House Arryn have always been Wardens of the East. The title goes with the domain."

"A boy of six years is no war leader, Ned. And as you're so fond of saying, winter is coming." Robert retorted sternly.

"In peace, the title is only an honor." Ned countered steely.

"And that is the only reason I'm letting him keep it." Robert was looking agitated now. "For his father's sake if not his own, I've let him keep it. I owed Jon that much for his service, but the boy is _not_ the father. Jon's service was the duty he owed his liege lord. I am not ungrateful, Ned. You of all men ought to know that! Yet still, a mere boy cannot hold the east."

When Harry looked to speak up, Robert silenced his son with a raised hand. "However, as you pointed out, Harry, Yohn Royce can get the job done in the boy's name. Jon trusted the lords of the Vale, and I'll trust them too for now. But be prepared to make frequent trips to the Eyre, boy. If you catch even a _whiff_ of dissent amongst those Valemen."

"Heads. Spikes. Wall." Harry intoned as if he had heard it a hundred times. And perhaps he did with all his traveling around the realm as soon as he was squiring under Ser Arthur Dayne.

"I had planned to wait a few days to speak to you, but I see now there's no need for it. Come, walk with me Ned."

They started back down between the pillars. Blind stone eyes seemed to follow them as they passed. The king kept his arm around Ned's shoulder. "You must have wondered why I finally came north to Winterfell, after so long."

Ned had his suspicions, but he did not give them voice. "For the joy of my company, surely," he said lightly. "And there is the Wall. You need to see it, Your Grace, to walk along its battlements and talk to those who man it. The Night's Watch is a shadow of what it once was. Benjen—"

"No doubt I will hear what your blasted brother says soon enough," Robert snorted. "The Wall has stood for what now? Eight thousand years? It can keep a few days more. I have more pressing concerns. These are difficult times. I need good men about me. Men like Jon Arryn. He served as Lord of the Eyrie, as Warden of the East, and as the Hand of the King. He will not be easy to replace."

The king looked serious. He took his arm from around Ned's shoulders and grasped him by the elbow. "I have need of you, Ned."

"I am yours to command, Your Grace. Always." They were words he had to say, and so he said them, apprehensive about what might come next.

Robert scarcely seemed to hear him.

"Those years we spent in the Eyrie... gods, those were good years. I want you at my side again, Ned. I want you down in King's Landing, not up here at the end of the world where you are no damned use to anybody."

Robert looked off into the darkness, for a moment as melancholy as a Stark. "I swear to you, sitting a throne is a thousand times harder than winning one. Laws are a tedious business and counting coppers is worse. And the people... there is no end of them. I sit on that damnable iron chair and listen to them complain until my mind is numb and my ass is raw. They all want something, money or land or justice. The lies they tell... and my lords and ladies are no better. I am surrounded by flatterers and fools. It can drive a man to madness, Ned. Thank the gods I have the boy now, and he does the job better than I'll ever see it done. Half of the bastards don't dare tell me the truth, and the other half can't find it. There are nights I wish we had lost at the Trident… Ah, no, not truly, but…"

"I understand," Ned replied softly, knowing what Robert _truly_ meant.

Robert looked at him. "I think you do. If so, you are the only one, my old friend."

Robert smiled. "Lord Eddard Stark, I would name you the Hand of the King."

Ned dropped to one knee. The offer did not surprise him; what other reason could Robert have had for coming so far? The Hand of the King was the second-most powerful man in the Seven Kingdoms. He spoke with the king's voice, commanded the king's armies, drafted the king's laws. At times he even sat upon the Iron Throne to dispense king's justice, when the king was absent, or sick, or otherwise indisposed. Robert was offering him a responsibility as large as the realm itself.

It was the last thing in the world he wanted.

"Your Grace," he said. "I am not worthy of the honor."

Robert groaned with good-humored impatience. "If I wanted to honor you, I'd let you retire. I am planning to make you run the kingdom and fight the wars while I eat and drink and wench myself into an early grave, so this little shit here can start progress on making the Seven Kingdoms great from sitting the Iron Throne."

Robert slapped his gut and grinned before slapping Harry hard on the back, making the young prince stumble. Robert threw back his head and roared his laughter. The echoes rang through the darkness, and all around them the dead of Winterfell seemed to watch with cold and disapproving eyes.

Finally, the laughter dwindled and stopped. Ned was still on one knee, his eyes upraised.

"Damn it, Ned," the king complained. "You might at least humor me with a smile."

"They say it grows so cold up here in winter that a man's laughter freezes in his throat and chokes him to death," Harry said evenly. "Perhaps that is why the Starks have so little humor."

Ned knew he had a pinched look on his face, but Robert laughed again, this time with Harry joining him.

"Come south with me, and I'll teach you how to laugh again, Lord Eddard Stark." the king promised. "You helped me win the damn thing, now help me keep it. We were meant to rule together. We have been brothers, bound by blood as well as affection."

"May I have some time to consider? I need to tell my wife…" Ned answered, but Robert cut him off by waving an impatient hand. Yet, he was smiling as he did.

"Yes, yes, of course, tell Catelyn, sleep on it if you must. Now stand your frozen Stark ass up."

"Nothing would give me greater pleasure, Your Grace," Ned jested, but the king reached down, clasped Ned by the hand, and pulled him roughly to his feet.

"Just don't keep me waiting too long. I am not the most patient of men. You know it well."

Harry followed them out of the crypt, speaking at length with his father about what needed to be done about the Lannisters and making war plans for a war that hadn't even started. Robert thrived best in little moments like this, and Ned saw that his friend of many years and brother bonded to him by the marriage blood of his sister Lyanna and nephew Hadrian had not become so much a shadow of his former self, but instead a man who had changed where he could to make himself a decent king. He had changed for Lyanna, at least for a while. And he had changed more for Harry.

For a moment Eddard Stark was filled with a terrible sense of foreboding. He looked at the stone figures all around them in the chill of the Stark family crypt. He could feel the eyes of the dead. They were all listening, he knew.

And winter was coming…

* * *

 **Hope everyone enjoyed this chapter. It shows a bit that with Harry around-and the son of the Robert & Lyanna-he has changed things about the world and people around him just from _living_ in the world as the crown prince. Robert, having a child from Lyanna to look after, his become a _slightly_ stronger king and father. This chapter was supposed to center a lot more on Harry's relationship with Joffrey, but I felt it would be out of place with the major event of the chapter: the arrival on the royal family, mostly Robert. As the royal visit lasts, however, it will shed more light on how Harry and Joffrey see each other. We already got a glimpse of what Harry thinks of Joffrey; Harry thinks he's a little shit, but still has some love for his "brother". And needless to say, Harry doesn't care much _at all_ for Cersei, who he barely tolerates.**

 **Questions? Comments? Concerns? REVIEW!**

 **Like it? Hate it? Burn it? Kiss it? REVIEW!**

 **Next chapter - September 24th**

 _ **Chapter Five: Hadrian the Rough**_

 **Hope everyone likes the story so far!**

 **Until Next Time, See Ya!**


	5. Hadrian the Rough

**Chapter 5: Hadrian the Rough**

* * *

There were times—not many, mind you, but a few—when Joffrey was glad he had an elder brother. As a fretful serving wench filled his wine goblet once more from an ornate flagon, it struck him that this might be one of them. His elder brother Hadrian settled back in his chair with casual ease as he sat between Joffrey and their father, on their father's left side. The sweet, fruity taste of summer-wine filled his mouth and brought a smile to his lips.

However, Joffrey kept the scowl from his face. The Great Hall of Winterfell left much to be desired in terms of décor.

The hall was hazy with smoke and heavy with the smell of roasted meats and freshly baked breads. Its boring grey stone walls were thankfully covered in the banners of great houses. White, gold, crimson: the direwolf of Stark, the Baratheon's crowned stag, the lion of Lannister. A singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, but Joffrey hardly cared for the babbling of long winters survived by ancient savages. And the people of Winterfell knew nothing of etiquette as they clattered their dull pewter plates and cups over the low mutter of a hundred drunken conversations. It was all noise, and the only saving grace to chaos his fourth cup of wine procured for him by Hadrian despite his mother's protests.

It was the fourth hour of the welcoming feast laid out for them, the royal family. Or rather, more so for Joffrey's father, Robert Baratheon, the king. Joffrey and his siblings were seated with their royal family and the host family, the Starks. Joffrey glanced down the raised platform where Tommen and Myrcella were engaged in silly antics with the younger Stark girl while the older Stark girl raised her nose to their foolishness. Good, at least one of the savages had a little modesty.

Looking back up at his own table, Joff watched as his father boomed with laughter at something the Lord Stark had recounted from their younger days. When his father's hand slammed the table, it shook as though it would give way. He did this a few more times with a wine glass almost teetering over if not for the quick hands of Hadrian reaching across the table. Joffrey would never understand how his brother did that, or why. Servants needed something to do with their idle time. Why not allow them to clean the messes of their king? It was an honor befitting their status!

Nursing his fourth glass, Joff wanted nothing more than to drink as much as he had a thrist for. He was a prince! He didn't want to be a drunk like his father, but still he wanted his fill of what the Starks had to offer. It was his birthright! However, his mother would only permit a single glass of wine, no more in honor of the occasion hosted by the Lord and Lady Stark.

Each child a glass of wine, but no more than that.

At least, until tonight with Hadrian sitting next to him.

Or rather, with him sitting next to Hadrian.

Joffrey fought hard not to scowl at that. If his mother had her way, he would be at the table below the platform he now sat atop with his father, mother, and elder brother. His mother treated him like a child, and while normally Joffrey didn't care much about that fact, it was embarrassing to be treated such in the presence of barbarians like the Stark family.

Hadrian's other family, as his mother so liked to remind everyone. If she had it her way, Hadrian would be with the Starks forever and never again set foot in King's Landing. Even Joffrey could see that now that he was aged enough to understand the withering looks his mother cast Joffrey's elder sibling. Hadrian, however, never seemed to care much. Joffrey's mother was an afterthought to him, but Joff was just glad his brother still paid his mother—their queen—the due respect of her titles as the king's wife and queen of the realm. And since Hadrian did pay her respect, Joffrey could normally tolerate whenever his elder brother got fed up with his mother. It wasn't often, but it happened enough for their uncle, Tyrion, to snicker about. It was usually just simple things, like squeezing his mother's hand a little too hard, or subtly wording a barb against her that made Joffrey's queen-mother rage about for days afterward.

And things like tonight also made Hadrian's roguish ways tolerable. How Hadrian had argued for Joffrey to start getting a few more privileges now that he was older. Freedoms like sitting with the adults at the adult table, and having a few more glasses of wine at a party. Hadrian said it would better prepare him for when he had to start doing it with people who weren't family, but Joff's mother had scowled at that quip. She didn't consider the Stark savages as their family, and nor did Joffrey.

However, Joffrey would never let Hadrian know that little fact after tonight.

Hadrian always considered the Starks family, even though their Lannister ties were family for much longer in Hadrian's life and were geologically closer than the northern stronghold of Winterfell. Still, Hadrian loved the Starks, and Joffrey could only continue to question his affection for the brutes of the North. The Starks were hardy people, rough around the edges and solemn beyond sanity. Joffrey despised them and their harsh snowy lands of barren winter. There were almost no plants, no animals, nothing beauty about it under than when he had first travelled north at a young age for one of Hadrian's namedays. It had been so white and pure that Joffrey had thought it heavenly. Then he rode for hours through the cold and hated it as he did from that point on. Every time he was forced to come north he missed flowers and bright sunlight that warmed his skin a little more with each passing second. He missed the fresh bay air from his towered room in the castle back home as it rose over the stench of the common rabble.

Joffrey loved his Lannister family best. His father's brothers—Joff's own uncles, Renly and Stannis, were… _okay_ … in small dosages. Stannis had the personality of driftwood, and Renly had _a little too much_ personality for his own good. Stannis was too serious, and Renly didn't take things seriously enough. And Joffrey didn't even want to get started on his crazy aunt Selyse, a dour old cow of a woman who managed to make even Joffrey's uncle Stannis, her husband, look interesting and tame. Then there was his cousin Shireen, who while a very nice person, was exceedingly weak-willed and ugly because of her Grayscale affliction.

Joffrey's real family—the Lannisters—were nothing but the most appealing and rich. Powerful and strong. Cunning and ambitious. Physically breathtaking and mentally unchallenged.

Or at least, that was his mother's opinion. One that he was beginning to understand with the Starks and the North so forcefully in front of his vision. He had sated his curiosity about the Northern people when they made their entrance. The procession had been boring to say the least, more so than any other place south of the Neck whenever Joffrey was required to go somewhere outside King's Landing.

His mother had been escorted in first, her arm held loftily by Lord Eddard Stark. The savages had whispered earnestly about her beautiful. A jeweled tiara gleamed amidst her long golden hair, its emeralds deeper than her green eyes, but a perfect match for the green of Hadrian's own eyes. Lord Stark helped her up the steps to the dais and led her to her seat, but Joffrey smirked as he noticed how his queen-mother never so much as looked at the man. Even at fourteen, Joff could see through her smile.

Next had come his king-father himself, with Lady Stark on his arm. His father was a great disappointment to Joffrey. The peerless Robert Baratheon, demon of the Trident, the fiercest warrior of the realm, a giant among princes. Joffrey only saw a formerly great man going to seed as he sweat through his silks and went red under his beard. His father was a man half in his cups, half in the past, and half ignorance as he denied his mother's family positions at court because other people in the seven kingdoms "deserved" them. Joffrey scoffed at the notion. The seven kingdoms barely deserved to be called such a thing if they were united under one ruler.

If Joffrey were king, there would only be the Baratheon royal kingdom, and only his family would profit from what he ruled over. After all, kingdoms were built upon great houses. Lineages. Heritages. Families. Only the Baratheon and Lannister names mattered, and only they would reap the rewards of the seven kingdom joined as one under the greatest king to ever grace Westeros with his birth: Joffrey Baratheon.

That was… if Joffrey were king…

Sadly, such an empire would never come to fruition because of his being born second in the king's line of succession.

All because of stupid Hadrian… a kingdom that would have stood for a thousand generations under the Baratheon crowned stag…

Joffrey drained the last of his wine quickly as those thoughts came and fled his mind. He would come to be a fine advisor to his brother Hadrian whenever he ascended the throne. With that he could potentially and hopefully save his vision of the future from complete ruin. Maybe with his help it would still come true, and history would remember him as the architect of such a masterful design. Myabe the Baratheon king line would stay just as long, or even outlast that of the former Targaryen dragons.

"You seem to be in thought, little brother." Hadrian had a voice that could cut through any noise without needing to shake the room like their father's booming tone. "Do cups make you more thoughtful? Better than what it does to father, at least."

Hadrian had worn his golden circlet, a simple and humble choice. It held no jewels, only an intricate design in the metal that looked like a thousand racing stags on the charge; all flowing toward the center of his forehead where two great stags met in a fierce lock of horns.

A simple and humble choice.

A stupid one, Joffrey thought while eyeing the crummy thing.

Joffrey's circlet was thicker and shinier, lined with so many emeralds and sapphires that one could not tell exactly where the jewels began or ended.

And that was just the way Joff liked his jewels and his jewelry.

His golden choker was expensive too, well nestled into his high velvet collar. The choker as well-polished by some servant back at the Red Keep, and for once Joffrey wouldn't have to kick the girl for touching his possessions without his expressed permission.

"Another cup of the Freezefear wine for my prince brother. And a cup of the Frostmere whiskey for myself." Hadrian said above the raucous clatter of the great hall. Joffrey busied himself with giving the Winterfell great hall bored and disdainful looks, daring any lesser beings to question his thirst.

"I think my son has had enough for the evening," Joffrey's mother, the queen, interjected, but Hadrian waved her off as he normally did.

"Nonsense! My brother needs a taste for wine. I'll not have him confuse mead and ale in presence when we sup with great houses. Good uncle Tyrion and father have taught me a thing or two, and hopefully Joffrey can learn just as much."

"My son will learn nothing from that—" his mother cut her spiteful words short, and Joffrey saw how much it amused Hadrian to get under her skin.

However, instead of continuing the spat as Joffrey would have thought of his mother, she decidedly turned her attention to uncle Jamie, and began having a quick and hushed conversation. Whatever was said left uncle Jamie smiling and Joffrey's mother fuming. Joff's father didn't even say a word, but his eye caught everything as he tipped his chalice to Joffrey and Hadrian from where he sat at the head of the table.

As a fretful serving wench refilled his golden goblet, Joffrey honored her with a small smile, gleeful as the girl went flush with heat for him. He didn't care much for women the way his father did, but it did give him some pleasure to know that he was handsome enough to make any woman blessed to be in his presence.

With those pleasant thoughts turning in his head, Joff savored a fresh gulp of his wine. Soon, maybe even on the eve of his next nameday, there would be no one to stop Joff drinking as much as he had a thirst for.

And he was finding that he had a man's thirst, to the raucous delight of his father and brother, who urged him on every time they caught him with golden goblet in hand.

"Now then," Hadrian began, a small smile on his face as he turned back to Joffrey, "what's on that disturbing little mind of yours, Joffrey?"

"Nothing that concerns you, brother." Joffrey muttered, but knew that Hadrian had heard him. Hadrian hardly missed anything Joffrey said.

"I believe anything that enters the spider's web called your brain concerns me… and the entire table for that matter, little brother." Hadrian nudged Joffrey playfully, Joffrey was hardly in the mood for any such false affections. Hadrian was only ever playful with him when he wanted something or needed information Joffrey hadn't even considered secret.

"Don't play coy with me, Hadrian. What do you want?" Joffrey drawled, setting his golden goblet out at arm's reach. It would not do him well if Hadrian caught him drunk and unawares.

Hadrian's emerald eyes followed his movements like a predator watching prey. "I was going to ask how you were enjoying your wine, but I can see that you like it greatly. So thus, I'll move on from pleasantries, and state my true query: how are you enjoying Winterfell's hospitality?"

"It's nothing more than they owe us for gracing their halls. Don't try to make it sound like they're being extra courteous, brother."

"Ah," Hadrian leaned back in his chair, savoring his newly filled cup after thanking the serving wench. Joffrey would never give thanks to a servant who was simply doing their job. "I sometimes forget you don't visit the North nearly as much as myself. You don't see its splendor… its bounty…"

"If we are being honest… It is all a little too drab and tiresome up here. There are no great works of art, no songs to be heard, no women dancing for my amusement. This place… Winterfell… it is boring to me. The North might as well be a barren wasteland for all interest that is here." Joffrey smiled, whether to himself or his brother even he didn't know.

Hadrian, however, did not look amused. "Don't ever say such a profoundly stupid thing again, Joffrey. The North holds a vastness that the other kingdoms lack. And unlike Dorne, the North can protect every inch of their lands without resorting to cheap hit-and-run tactics. There are things here in the North that you would believe impossible."

"You mean like that mutt you've acquired while here?" Joffrey had seen the beast. It was a runt.

Well, at least when compared to Harry's beast back at the castle. What was that thing's name again…?

"Yes, Severus is something, isn't he? Only a month, and he's already nearly the size of a full-grown dog. Just imagine how big he'll be in a year." Hadrian took up his chalice once again. Joffrey scowled at the disgusting thing. He would never drink from such cheap glass in his life. Yet, Hadrian had no problem holding it as if it were gold.

But no, gold was what Joffrey and his family had brought with them in order to avoid doing exactly what Hadrian was doing now. Well, Hadrian was not the only one. Their father, uncle Jamie, and uncle Tyrion were drinking and eating off the cheap pewter as well.

And speaking of uncle Tyrion… where was it that the Imp was slipping away to now?

Hadrian too had caught the Imp leaving the feast early after making excuses, but his eyes once again locked on Joffrey.

"If enormous dogs are the best the North has to offer, then I believe I'll be just _fine_ not appreciating its… _splendor_ …"

"There is _much_ more to the North than wolves and ice." Hadrian said with a glint to his eyes, but then looked at Joffrey from over the rim of his pewter chalice as he sipped his whiskey.

"Of course there is…" Joffrey refrained from rolling his eyes.

"The North has warriors, not knights who all practice the appearance of warriors, but actual warriors, Joffrey. The North has fighters here that worth ten in the South. It's cold that does it… it hardens a person. Man or women, elder or child… winter will never find the North unprepared for its wrath."

"I've no doubt about their fighting capacity, Hadrian." After all, the North was filled with savages. They were little more than beasts, so of course they should have the ability to fight with greater strength than normal men. However, savages didn't have the strength of mind like knights did. Nor the grace. "The North was a major help in father winning his throne."

"Ha!" Hadrian barked with laughter, "You don't fool me, little brother. We both know that the North and the Vale practically handed father his crown with Uncle Ned all but placing it on his head... But you don't fool me, Joffrey. Not one bit. You don't respect the North. You think it's just a bunch of _ice and snow_. You are probably of the same mind that Dorne is nothing but _sand_."

Joff rolled his eyes, "That's because Dorne _is_ nothing but sand."

"Then why, Joffrey? Why are the North and Dorne two of the great seven kingdoms if they are nothing but snow and sand?" Hadrian leaned forward at Joff, now looking curious for his answer.

The blond prince rolled his eyes once again. "Because a long time ago they had submitted themselves to Aegon the Conqueror, who in my opinion was far too kind to the whelps with the type of power he wielded."

" _Too kind_ , you say." Harry echoed as though stunned by the words alone. Joffrey nodded.

"Yes. Far too kind. He possessed not only an army of men loyal to himself, but the greatest thing the Targaryens ever possessed in history: dragons."

"Dragons? You think that was the best thing about House Targaryen and its kings? Their _dragons_?"

"Of course. If I possessed a dragon, I would conquer all the lands. From the Iron Isles to the furthest reaches of Essos, all the lands would tremble at the might of my army with dragons flying overhead."

"Dragons wouldn't help you rule the world, Joffrey. They'd only get you killed quicker." Hadrian took a deep gulp from his pewter chalice.

"The dragons would be an asset, not the main fighting force. They would burn villages and castles to the ground before my armies came in to demolish whatever was left."

"If you possessed a dragon, Joffrey, it would eat you alive. Dragons don't bend to the will of just any man."

"Then it is a good thing I was born a prince."

"A prince who thinks too much of a dragon." Hadrian smiled, and Joffrey found it did not settle well with him. "Your dragon would be shot down by the archers placed upon castle walls… at least, if it got that close to begin with. They'd probably launch scorpion bolts at it until they at least clipped a wing. The moment a dragon stops flight when the enemy knows about it is the moment it is in danger."

"What nonsense are you talking about?" the blond scowled at his older brother. Leave it to Hadrian to always have all the answers. "Dragons can breathe _fire_! They are massive!"

"And yet, flames can only travel so far. Size only matters if it can be used against an enemy. The dragons most use tool is their ability to fly. The ultimate expression of maneuverability. The power to go as far as their wings would carry them. To sail clean over any walls, any armies, any rivers or seas. A dragon's best power is flight, and once that is taken from it; it might as well be a horse with a torch. Sooner rather than later, the dragon will be overwhelmed and killed."

"Yes, well…" Joffrey tried to regain some footing with his brother. He always saw dragons as fire-breathing demons for conquest. He only ever gave the barest thought to their ability to fly. It was more novelty than actual power to Joffrey. "Dragons are extinct now, so it doesn't matter. Besides, if a dragon ever did return to the lands, we'd be well prepared to capture it rather than kill it. Then we could breed more dragons hopefully, and bring all the kingdom under one banner: House Baratheon."

"…you've been thinking about this, haven't you?"

"Of course. These are all subjects mother and I have discussed at length during our travel up here with father. She prepared me, so as not to be caught unawares for something of this nature."

"Ah, that figures it. She trained you on how both fronts, hmm?"

"Both fronts?"

"Yes, how to speak what you—or rather _she_ —really thinks about the North to the Lannister men who've come with you, and you probably have some good responses for the Starks if they should ask you anything about the North."

"Of course." Joffrey smiled over the rim of his goblet, but then he scowled so deeply at Hadrian the other quirked an eyebrow, "However, don't call it her _training_ me. It sounds as though I were no better than those mutts of you keep."

Hadrian then gave Joffrey one of those looks. A look that told him that his next words would be harsh, but carry great meaning. He stared hard at Joffrey, almost as if glaring into the prince's soul, but Joffrey was proud that he only flinched back a little. A few years ago one of those looks would have calling mother to his defense.

"When you let someone else, _anyone_ _else_ —even your _mother_ —make your opinions for you, then you _are_ no better than the mutts I keep, my naïve little brother." Hadrian snarled, and for a split moment, Joffrey was afraid his brother would strike him across the face, or raise his voice in a roar like their father would. Worse yet, in front of everyone.

Or even worse, look down on Joffrey from that day forth like child who clung too closely to their mother's dress.

However, there must have been something in his expression that told his elder brother what he had just thought was to come, as Hadrian took a deep breath before rising from the table.

"I shall take my leave of the festivities, everyone." Hadrian said, and all the conversations at the table paused for his announcement. "Please, enjoy the rest of the feast on my behalf."

The others gave their goodnights to him, and Hadrian swept off from the hall while Joffrey watched him leave with something akin to horror.

Was he truly what Hadrian had cast upon him with unspoken words?

Was he really a mama's boy?

* * *

"Severus, to me." Harry said aloud to the quiet and near empty yard. A lone sentry stood high on the battlements of the inner wall, his cloak pulled tight around him against the cold. He looked bored and miserable as he huddled there alone.

Then a pair of gleaming eyes peered out from the shadows of the inner wall, and a large black shadow slowly morphed away from the wall in a jog as Severus came reluctantly to Harry's call. Harry chuckled a bit as he threw the dog a leg of chicken, which it took earnestly by tearing apart with all the haste of a starved wolf.

But the damn mutt was never starved, this Harry knew.

The sounds of music and song spilled through the open windows behind the crown prince.

Harry began to walk around the castle with little thought to where he was going. He did this wherever he was when he found himself practically vexed by thought or emotion. It was never too often that something bothered Harry. Normally was it was the problems of Dragonstone that made Harry walk through empty halls, but today it was Cersei Lannister.

Or rather, what Cersei Lannister was doing to his brother, Joffrey Baratheon.

The woman was a poison Harry felt was slowly eating away at the kingdom. All she did was turn her nose up at anyone who wasn't a Lannister and go to any lengths she could to make her presence known as queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

Like all the extravagant parties and feasts and tourneys she held in honor of her Lannister family, or her children, or to bring more Lannister squires into knighthood.

It was sickening.

And as much as Harry had tried to stop it with the little time spent with his brother Joffrey, Cersei was poisoning Joffrey's mind as much as she was trying to put the crown in debt to her father, Tywin Lannister.

Of course, it was always an argument with that woman. And it always ended the same: the debt was on the Lannisters if they chose to lend their precious Cersei even a single gold dragon for whatever it was she demanded. And of course Cersei always demanded.

And so, of course, Tywin always supplied.

But now Cersei was making Joffrey into a puppet, and that was what bothered Harry.

Joffrey might have had a mean streak, a cruelty that Harry wanted to beat out of his brother, but if it was combined with the haughty stupidity that was Cersei's Lannister-mindset, then the Seven Kingdoms were in trouble if Harry could not stop it.

Especially since he knew Cersei wouldn't be able to control it.

The woman made evil; she rarely displayed the ability to tame it to her will.

Unlike Harry himself.

It would seem that since his brother was growing into a ma now, Harry would have to keep him on a closer leash than expected.

"Jon!" Harry called as he returned to the empty yard outside the feast. Jon turned to him, a watery smile on his face.

Had Jon been crying just then?

Behind Jon, Tyrion Lannister was sitting on the ledge above the door to the Great Hall, looking for all the world like a gargoyle. The dwarf grinned down at them.

"Are those animals there wolves? My brother and sister have been most fervent about your… pets, Harry."

"They are direwolves, Uncle Tyrion." Harry said, his furrowed brow relaxing as he and Jon stared up at the little man.

"What? Another one?" Tyrion said as he cocked his head to the side, "What of the one back at the castle you returned with after inspecting the Wall and beyond?"

"Remus is a summer wolf. Severus belongs to the winter." Harry explained, but he saw Tyrion didn't quite understand. "Remus came from beyond the Wall, but I found Severus here on this side near Long Lake. That means that winter is coming soon to the Seven Kingdoms."

"If you say so, nephew." Tyrion waved Harry off, but was probably thinking about his words more than he'd like to show, "For now, however, its too hot, too noisy, and I'd drunk too much wine."

"You didn't happen to vomit on uncle Jamie, did you?"

"I learned long ago that it is considered rude to vomit on your brother."

"Oh well, one can only hope…"

"Can he climb down?" Jon said to Harry, probably louder than he thought was being. Jon's breath smelt of summer-wine. "Shall I bring a ladder?"

"Oh, bleed that," Tyrion said before he pushed himself off the ledge into empty air. Jon gasped, but Harry only chuckled as they watched Tyrion Lannister. He spun around in a tight ball, landed lightly on his hands, then vaulted backward onto his legs.

Severus and Ghost backed away from him uncertainly, like opposite sides of a mirror moving in reflection.

The half-man dusted himself off and laughed. "I believe I've frightened your wolves. My apologies."

"He's not scared," Jon said as he knelt and called out. "Ghost, come here. Come on. That's it." The wolf pup padded closer and nuzzled at Jon's face, but he kept a wary eye on Tyrion Lannister, and when the dwarf reached out to pet him, he drew back and bared his fangs in a silent snarl.

"Shy, isn't he?" Tyrion observed.

"Severus, to me." Harry said, and Severus moved warily to sit at Harry's left leg, shielding himself from Tyrion who he sniffed at.

"Sit, Ghost," Jon commanded. "That's it. Keep still."

He looked up at the dwarf. "You can touch him now. He won't move until I tell him to. I've been training him."

"I see," Tyrion smiled as he ruffled the snow-white fur between Ghost's ears. "Nice wolf."

"If I wasn't here, he'd tear out your throat," Jon said. It wasn't actually true yet, but it would be.

Harry snorted as he tried to hold back his laughter. "In that case, you had best stay close."

Jon rose. Standing, already twice the size of Tyrion. Harry remembered that feeling. The strangest of being taller than someone three times your age.

"Jon, have you seen Gendry at the feast?" Harry asked as Jon nodded.

"He was drinking with the squires. They all seemed nice enough…"

Harry nodded, taking note of the way Jon's face fell. "Good. I was worried he might have gone looking for me instead of enjoying himself. It's not often he gets to enjoy the company of boys his age and yours. Almost a whole year now that he's only had the Griffguard and me to take his meals with. Arthur and Brienne always ruin a meal with talk of training. And me… well, I'm poor enough company as it is."

Jon and Tyrion laughed at that, but then gave each other stunned looks as they cut their laughter short upon seeing the other mirror them. It must have been surreal to see someone so different have the same opinion on something like Harry's sense of humor.

"Jon, right?" Tyrion said with curiosity dripping in his tone, "As in Jon Snow, correct? As in Ned Stark's bastard son? The one our dear king Robert hugged upon our arrival?"

"That I am." Jon said, puffing his chest up a bit.

There had been a time where Jon hated being called a bastard by anyone and everyone, but now he was used to it. No one in Winterfell treated him poorly, and since Harry went gallivanting around the Seven Kingdoms with his bastard brothers, Edric and Gendry, for a time, no one was sure how they should approach the subject of bastards.

With nearing the time of his own rule from the Iron Throne, the entire continent was a little more tolerant of bastards as their soon-to-be king seemed to take no offense by them.

At least, so long as they didn't try to overstep their place in society. Yes, some of them could rise, but they could never take the place of a living legitimate heir or such.

"Then you are the one begging to join the Night's Watch." Tyrion drawled, slowly drinking in Jon's appearance as though the boy would drop dead before him.

"I haven't—I didn't—I was _not_ begging!" Jon snarled as Tyrion rolled his eyes.

"Personally, I don't understand why you're so obessed with the Night's Watch." Harry drawled himself with a shrug as Jon rounded on him.

"I am not ob—"

"You are very obsessed. Especially when I've offered to take you into my Griffguard." Harry said as Jon clamored to his feet.

"I want to join the Night' Watch so people fear me due to skill, not who my family is."

"Then you should have thought of that before you were born the bastard son of the Quiet Wolf, good-brother to the King of Westeros known to all men of the Seven Kingdoms as the Taker of Crowns, and Demon of the Trident." Tyrion sneered softly as Jon turned back to him, his face flushed with either the wine or his own embarrassment.

"As much as I want the Wall to be manned by those of your quality, Jon, I still think you'd do better with me and the Griffguard." Harry took Jon's shoulder and gave him a hard look. "You might feel that taking the Black is the only honorable thing you can do, but remember that honor isn't everything in every moment. Some men wait a lifetime for the honorable thing to come to them, and some make honor out of their bad decisions. Honor is defined by what you do, how people see it, and why you do what needs doing. Think about your options before you jump into something you know nothing about."

"I know all I need to about the Black!" Jon retorted, probably louder than he meant to. He slapped away Harry's hand, stumbling a bit at the sudden unbalance. "I know I'd be giving up women… and marriage… and… and other things, but—"

"But _nothing_ , boy," Tyrion said, and his stern voice cowed Jon almost like a king's tone. "Harry and I have been to the Wall, and boys like you would sooner run away from your sworn oath if the first things you think you're giving up are whores and sex. Marriage is just spending time with one whore for her entire life."

"Erm hmph," Harry cleared his throat, seeing as he was about to be married in the coming few months.

"Apologizes, nephew," Tyrion said, though didn't look the least bit sorry.

Tyrion turned back to Jon, his eyes stern again as he looked up at the youth. "The point is, marriage and sex aren't your two biggest worries if you join the Wall. What about the family you have here and now? The little girl I saw just early today outclassing her brother in bow and sword? Or the boy who can climb like a trained circus monkey? Or the older girl who stood like a proper lady of the South with more dignity than I've seen from any woman in a while. Or the oldest Stark child who kept looking for you at the table? Or your dear father, who rambled on and on about how proud he was of each of his children."

"And the wife who hates me with every fiber of her being." Jon seethed with his fists clenched.

Tyrion nodded while waving him off dismissively, "Yes, you'll have to excuse her that. She's only a woman."

"Your opinion of women is noted, good uncle." Harry said in an exasperated tone.

"Just think about this boy." Tyrion drawled with the shake of his head. "Even give it a bit of a trial period, if you need." Tyrion shared a look with Harry. "If you want to go and try your luck at the Wall so bloody much, then you can accompany me there while I take my time pissing off the damn thing. If you like it, I'll leave you there with the best of wishes. If you suddenly remember common senses, then you'll accompany me back to humanity and join Harry's ill named band of merry misfit knights."

"Careful, Uncle Tyrion," Harry said with a small smirk, "Any of those misfit knights could cut you apart as easily as carving a cake."

"You stole that from Barristan."

"No," Harry smirked wider, "he taught it to me."

Jon looked solemn, "I'll do as you ask, Harry." Because of course he knew it was all Harry's idea. Only Harry had such honeyed words for him. Tyrion didn't know him, and certainly won't care about him in the least. "But you don't understand what it means to be a bastard. Neither of you do. You might help your bastard brothers, but you'll never understand them… their lives… what it means to go through life with the word bastard hanging over your head…"

"All dwarves are bastards in their father's eyes…" Tyrion said slowly with a shrug, no longer hurt by what he had dealt with for over twenty years of his life.

"It's not the same thing…" Jon muttered stubbornly.

"You are right, Jon," Jon turned to Harry, hearing how hollow his voice sounded. "What would I know about the life of a bastard brother or of you? I only watched my mother die before my young eyes after being prisoner to a crazed prince just as mad as his father… Then got shoved into the role of a prince myself with a woman who tried her damnedest to make me feel as though my freshly-dead mother and I weren't worth her chamber pot…"

"Harry…" Tyrion said, hanging his head and sighing.

"A woman who my father had to marry before my mother was even properly buried…"

"I didn't know…" Jon looked horrified between Tyrion and Harry.

"A woman who told me every day that she would see me dead before she saw me on a throne that belonged to her family… her soon to be born son…"

"Harry, its over." Tyrion tried to reach for Harry's arm, but he was slapped away. Harry took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

"Whispers surrounded me for a long time too, Jon. Assassins with daggers… poison plots… Kidnappings… And that woman, Cersei Lannister, was only behind a few of them every year in my childhood. She made the first few years of my life in that grand castle as miserable as she could, but I have to give her some thanks because she made me stronger than her in her attempts to break me."

"Harry… I… I didn't know…"

"Of course you didn't know," Harry snarled, "you don't think about anyone but yourself since the world apparently revolved around you. You and your women. You and your marriage. You and your other things."

Jon backed away from the heated glare Harry was now throwing him. Instead of the anger for what had been brought up from bad memories, Harry was channeling that anger to fuel his tirade at Jon.

"Uncle Ned gave you a blessed life, and all you want to do is run away from it because one person makes you doubt you belong to it. Arya loves you. Sansa loves you, but doesn't show it as much because of Aunt Cat and that damnable Septa you lot keep. Bran loves you. Rickon loves you. Robb loves you. Uncle Ned loves you best and most. And hell, even Theon likes to annoy you because he feels you're the only one around that has any respect for him here in the North. Just because Aunt Cat doesn't like or love you, that makes it all unbearable?"

"I… it… she…"

"She makes you _stronger_. Let her say what she will. Let her look down on you." Harry grabbed him by his collar, and with a strength like his massive father, Harry held Jon off his feet with one hand. "Let her hatred _fuel_ you. Drive you to train harder. Become smarter. Become better than she could _ever_ expect. Only then will you have the last laugh. Only then will you have truly won the fight against her. _AND CERSEI LANNISTER WILL NEVER HAVE THE BETTER OF ME_!"

With that said, Harry dropped Jon in the snow of the empty yard. The lone sentinel was gawking up on the armaments, his vigilance forgotten in lieu of the drama going on down in the yard. Harry looked up at the man, and made him trip back into his position of standing guard. With a final hard look at Jon's face and then Tyrion's stunned expression, Harry swept from the yard in kingly fashion, Severus at his heels like loyal beast should.

"Well then," Tyrion said, clapping his hands together once, "Remind me to never get on my dear nephew's bad side."

Jon looked up at Tyrion, who was his position on the snowy yard ground was practically towering over him. "Only if you'll do the same for me…"

"Indeed."

* * *

 **So there you have it! Not exactly the chapter I had planned, mind you, but work and college have kept me busy and off balance.**

 **This chapter, at least for me, was… ehh. I didn't like the way it turned out, but that's a part of writing. Sometimes you'll have really great chapters, and some chapters will just be bad. I don't mind that, as it'll drive me to write better in the next chapter. This chapter though was not at all what I had planned. It was supposed to be a chapter where Joffrey's personality shows over the feast. It was supposed to show how Joffrey respects and even loves Harry as his brother, but doesn't quite like Harry as a person because Harry is constantly on his case about the way he's turning out. Ya know, like a real big brother would be. The chapter was also supposed to showcase how Joffrey is more book-smart than Harry, who is more worldly and likeable than Joffrey. Sort of a callback to how Stannis is smarter than Robert, but people like Robert better nonetheless. The chapter was also supposed to show how each brother would run their kingdom. Joffrey would bully the other kingdoms into one empire, but Harry would slowly make them think it was their own idea. And this chapter was also supposed to show just how much Cersei's influence is now an ingrained part of Joffrey's mindset, and how absent Harry and Robert are compared to the mother-hen that is Cersei Lannister.**

 **The chapter was going to be a fight between Cersei and Harry over Joffrey, but I decided against this as Harry no longer fights with Cersei and Cersei would never publicly fight with anyone. Cersei was supposed to show just how much she wants Harry dead and Harry was supposed to show just how much Cersei doesn't bother him anymore, but deep down she is the core of what bothers him. Harry has grown up to have tougher skin than most because of Cersei's brand of evil, and so he goes around creating goodwill since he knows how stupid and evil people can be through Cersei and her Lannister cronies. It also shows that Cersei has practically driven Harry to be more like Robert than most people realize because Harry doesn't drink and whore the way Robert does. Harry is rough like Robert, and strong like him, but Harry is also ill-tempered and violent when people get him angry. Call it wolfsblood; call it Baratheon rage; call it whatever you want. Cersei brought it out of Harry at a very young age, and she is the source of all Harry's misery after he became a prince.**

 **I also revealed some things in this chapter that I had planned to keep hidden until the part of the story where they return to King's Landing. Those small parts include Remus the direwolf which Harry got from his first exploration beyond the Wall, so there. Now you know why the black wolf wasn't named Remus or Sirius. Sirius is the name of another beast Harry has, one that was revealed by Ned in a previous chapter to be somewhere on Dragonstone. You guys also now know that Harry was at the Wall and even beyond it.**

 **Remus, first direwolf found beyond the Wall where Harry went with his original Griffguard members, Tyrion, and some men of the Night's Watch. Who were the men of the Watch that accompanied him? Who were these original Griffguard members? What else did Harry encounter beyond the Wall? How did this trip change him?**

 **Sirius, a beast back at Dragonstone. What is Sirius?**

 **Severus, a direwolf Harry found near Long Lake after an execution.**

 **Lily, a Valyrian-steel sword Harry keeps on him most of the time with a twin sword named Prongs.**

 **Prongs, a Valyrian-steel sword that harry keeps along with its twin, Lily.**

 **Members of the Griffguard so far: Arthur Dayne, Brienne of Tarth, Nymen Martell, and Jonothor Darry.**

 **Questions? Comments? Concerns? REVIEW!**

 **Like it? Hate it? Kiss it? Burn it? REVIEW!**

 **Next chapter (hopefully) - October 30th**

 _ **Chapter Six: Stark Emotions for the Starks**_

 **Hopefully everyone doesn't mind the crappiness of this chapter, and likes the story as a whole so far.**

 **Until Next Time, See Ya!**


	6. Mentions in Murmurs

**Some people wanted to hear more about the "magic" side of Harry Potter in this story, so I revealed an event I was going to keep under wraps until the return to King's Landing. However, this works just as well as it shows why Margaery and the Tyrells are so keen on Hadrian "Harry" Baratheon being her husband.**

 **Also, I've got a few messages asking how old Harry is supposed to be in this story. I thought mentioned it in a previous chapter, but maybe not. Harry is turning 18 years of age and getting married, either one before the other with King Robert at the helm of events. I moved the Tourney of Harrenhal to occur in 280 AC, and Harry was born shortly after that. The Tourney of Harrenhal marked the end of the False Spring, and Harry was born the same day the weather became warmer.**

 **The current year is 298 AC. This makes Harry the same age as Brienne of Tarth, Ygritte, and the dead Princess Rhaenys Targaryen, daughter of Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell.**

 **Also, another note to take notice of now. I have changed this chapter as a sort of filler. The real chapters will begin with the next one, Chapter 7.**

 **Chapter 6: Mentions in Murmurs**

* * *

Margaery Tyrell was, perhaps, beginning to like King's Landing.

However, she still desperately longed for her Highgarden home.

" _I know how you might feel now_ ," Harry's voice had been soft as worn leather. His rough thumb finger had caressed her chin while his hand cupped her face. His eyes had been filled with a kindness and love Margaery felt almost ashamed she was still unable to return to him just yet. " _But soon! So very soon you will love the Red Keep as dearly as Highgarden castle. You will stroll the streets of King's Landing as surely and securely as I watched you frolic your home gardens_."

His lips had pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, and she blushed with the memory of how flushed it had made her then. " _This will be home to you… and I know you will make King's Landing bloom as beautiful as your presence did Highgarden. You are my golden rose, Margaery. My queen. Growing strong will soon mean more than you ever thought possible with me at your side, and you at mine_."

Margaery hugged herself, remembering how surely he had embraced her, the beat of his heart matching her own as for a moment she thought they had become one of mind and soul. Then he had released her, and she felt strangely alone even with her escort standing behind her.

" _I must go now, my love_." his words, so very strong but soft, had struck a chord in her heart. " _I ride for Winterfell, but upon my return, you will know the depths of my love in full as you did during our time together in Highgarden_."

" _Stay_ ," she had bid him— _begged_ him—in that one word. He was her whole reason for being here, in this strange city that filled with strange people. He was her world now that they were to be married in a few months' short time. How could he leave her so suddenly? So easily?

Harry's face had turned then, and yet she realized it was not aimed at her. Margaery had always known when someone was pointing their looks at her, ever since her first blood. Harry's face, however, was aimed at the castle he was looking back upon, just beyond her shoulders where her escorts stood in the shadow of the gate which led up to the courtyard of the Red Keep. His eyes had gone from soft emerald fields into icy cold emerald jewels. His smile was replaced with a thin-lipped line. His nostrils flared ever-so subtly.

Hadrian Baratheon was incited by the memory of something… or someone up in that castle.

" _You will be safe here, I assure you_." His tone had taken on a hardness Margaery had only heard from him when one of his knights interrupted their time together to bother him with princely duty. " _My father and siblings ride to the North as well, but at a much slower pace. In the time we are away, grow accustomed to the city. Find what you like about it. Ferret out what sickens you. Have the Gold Cloaks help you if needed, even the common folk will assist_."

" _And then what_?" Margaery had asked, and never felt so small since she was a child.

Harry had smiled, face relaxing as he kissed her lips chastely. It was sweet and innocent, something she had not expected so close to their marriage day.

His hand reached out and tucked one of her soft brown curls behind an ear. " _Like weeds from a garden, prune whatever you don't like. Exterminate whatever infests this great capital. I have done what I can over the years, but your experience with the Reach will be invaluable to the people. If they are hungry, feed them. If they are cold, give them warmth. If they are tattered, cloth them well. If they are down, lift them up_."

" _Do all this, my love, and the people of King's Landing shall love you_."

" _And when they love me_?"

Her arms dropped to her sides as she remembered the sharp look in Hadrian's eyes; how those precious emerald orbs had seemed so cutting and clear. The truth of Hadrian was in that one moment, and Margaery had allowed herself to be distracted by just how deep and green his eyes had been.

Margaery was finally beginning to understand why he was so gentle around her.

Because the softness belied the steel coldness just beneath the surface.

" _Then they shall love you more dearly than any queen before you. The common people do not forget those who feed them bread. They do not languish under those who give them warms; those that rise them up. They will do anything for you if you bring them just a step closer to living as we do._ "

" _Of c-course_ …" Margaery hadn't quite understood it then, but she did now. Hadrian never put the people down. He was slowly building them up. Giving them bits and pieces until they believed they had a life that resembled great.

And as the common people rose in life, so did the monarchy. The gap would forever shift with everyone gaining a foot above what they had previously thought possible.

"So what will we ascend to if we rise any higher?" Margaery asked herself in a whisper.

What would they become?

True, King's Landing was no Highgarden, but it did enjoy a moderate level of refinement fit for people who thrived in war. Knights. Warrior-kings.

People like Hadrian Eddard Baratheon.

King's Landing was made _**for**_ _war_ , _**from**_ _war_.

The city sat atop its three high hills, but three hundred years ago, Margaery knew, the heights had been covered with forest, and only a handful of fisherfolk had lived on the north shore of the Blackwater Rush where the deep, swift river flowed into the sea.

Then Aegon the Conqueror had sailed from Dragonstone. It was here that his army had put ashore, and here on the highest hill that he built his first crude redoubt of wood and earth.

Now the city covered the shore as far as Margaery could see; manses and arbors and granaries, brick storehouses and timbered inns and merchant's stalls, taverns and graveyards and brothels, all piled one on another. She could hear the clamor of the fish market even at this distance. Between the buildings were broad roads lined with trees, wandering crookback streets, and alleys so narrow that two men could not walk abreast.

Visenya's Hill was crowned by the Great Sept of Baelor with its seven crystal towers. Across the city on the Hill of Rhaenys stood the blackened walls of the Dragonpit, its huge dome collapsing into ruin, its bronze doors closed now for a century. The Street of the Sisters ran between them, straight as an arrow. The city walls rose in from the distance, high and strong.

A hundred quays lined the waterfront, and the harbor was crowded with ships. Deepwater fishing boats and river runners came and went, ferrymen poled back and forth across the Blackwater Rush, trading galleys unloaded goods from Braavos and Pentos and Lys. Margaery spied the queen's ornate barge, tied up beside a fat-bellied whaler from the Port of Ibben, its hull black with tar, while upriver a dozen lean golden warships rested in their cribs, sails furled and cruel iron rams lapping at the water.

And above it all, Margaery frowned down from Aegon's High Hill as she watched the city below her from the Red Keep. Outside the window, the rooftops of King's Landing were red in the light of the setting sun.

The Red Keep... with its seven huge drumtowers crowned with iron ramparts, an immense grim barbican, vaulted halls and covered bridges, barracks and dungeons and granaries, massive curtain walls studded with archers' nests, all fashioned of pale red stone. Aegon the Conqueror had commanded it built. His son Maegor the Cruel had seen it completed. Afterward he had taken the heads of every stonemason, woodworker, and builder who had labored on it. Only the blood of the dragon would ever know the secrets of the fortress the Dragonlords had built, he vowed.

Yet now the banners that flew from its battlements were golden, not black, and where the three-headed dragon had once breathed fire, now pranced the crowned stag of House Baratheon.

"My lady," a voice came from behind her. It was her assigned personal handmaiden, Viola; she was to be a fit for Margaery's new life here as wife to the crowned prince, "the other ladies are preparing for the day and whatever activities you have planned for them. Also, your bath is ready for you, my lady."

Margaery offered the girl a small smile. "Thank you, Viola. Be sure to have the maidens attend to my bath."

Viola curtsied as she should, "Of course, my Lady."

While the girl left to see her lady's orders done, Margaery couldn't help but remember her arrival to King's Landing. She and her had rode through the city, making their way up Aegon's High Hill. Harry had met his bride-to-be at the King's Gate to welcome her to the city, and they rode side by side through cheering crowds. Harry had looked so handsome and kingly in his silver stag armor and she knew she had appeared splendid in green with a cloak of autumn flowers blowing from her shoulders. She was only sixteen, brown-haired and brown-eyed, slender and beautiful.

The people called out their names as they passed, held up their children for her blessing, and scattered flowers under the hooves of their horses. Margaery's mother and grandmother followed close behind, riding in a tall wheelhouse whose sides were carved into the shape of a hundred twining roses, every one gilded and shining. The smallfolk cheered them as well.

* * *

There came a soft knock on her door.

"Come," Margaery said, turning away from the window. Her servants entered, bowed, and set about their business. They were from her old life in Highgarden, a gift from her dear sweet grandmother who felt that she should have at least some of the comforts she enjoyed previously in the Reach.

Old and sweet Manya only ever smiled when she attended to Margaery, but Lyas always made up for the lack of conversation. She was Margaery's favorite maiden back home; a fair-haired, blue-eyed girl her own age who chattered constantly as she worked.

The two women filled her bath with hot water and scented it with fragrant oils. Lyas pulled Margaery's silk sleeping gown over her head and helped her into the tub. The water was perfectly hot, but never scalding to the touch. And the scented Jasmine oils were already in the water, making Margaery feel both fresh and clean.

Manya washed her thick brown hair, gently combing out the nonexistent snags, all in silence.

Lyas scrubbed her back and her feet and told her how lucky she was. "Prince Hadrian is the most eligible man in all the Seven Kingdoms. It's said that he helped save King's Landing from a company of assassins sent over from the Free Cities of Essos last year. Slayed a hundred of them, its told!"

Margaery remembered such tale. "It was thirty men slew in battle, with his father the king claiming forty-three in the battle."

"Were they really men of the Golden Company?"

"Some of them were, yes. Others were from the Unsullied or the Second Sons. A few even… from the Undying House."

Manya gasped and dropped her brush, but Margaery was not angry with the elder maid. When she had heard mention of the Undying House, it had almost made her faint beside her grandmother, who at the time had fallen back in her chair with a hand over her elderly heart. The Undying Ones were well rumored to be ancient sorcerers who coveted secrets to eternal life through dark and forbidden means. They had been thought all dead until Harry had slain a troop of blue-skinned warlocks with his sword Prongs engulfed in mysterious green wildfire that did Harry no harm.

And afterward, if her brother Garland had not been present to fight the battle, Margaery would have never believed it… Harry had swept his sword Prongs over the battlefield, and a wave of green flames incinerated their remaining twenty or so foes while leaving the handful of knights from King's Landing and the Reach untouched except for the smell of summer and the warmth of live breath.

" _It was like nothing I had_ ever _seen, grandmother_!" Garland rasped as he reported immediately and directly to their grandmother while Margaery and their father had sat there staring at his bloody armor. " _He had been fighting inside the godswood, but when he came out dragging the corpse of a blue-hued man, he looked_ enraged _. Then he roared like a crack of thunder, and his sword caught aflame like wildfire. Wildfire,_ it was _, I tell you! And he swung twice before on his third sweep he gave his blade a long arc, sending forth a wave of flames I've only ever heard tale come forth from_ dragons _and wizard-men of the Hero Age! And when it reached me—because it went far and wide—my mind thought for sure my life was forfeited… But it bathed me in warmth like a mother's breath upon her babe, and the sellsword_ behind _me died engulfed in flames! Not a blade of grass or knight upon our allegiance was harmed, but all that remained of our foes was consumed by fire and turned to_ ash _! Then the prince turned away, sheathing his fiery blade. He mounted a horse and rode hard back to the castle, leaving even his king-father stunned by his evident_ power."

Garland had caught up to her hours later that same day. "The king calls it the Baratheon wrath, but I've never heard tale of any man in that line doing such a thing before Prince Hadrian. He is a powerful man, Margaery. Take care to endear yourself well to such power. Let him be your shield and sword, for I see all foes falling before him…"

Garland had almost scared Margaery, but luckily Harry had also made the trip to the Reach. Both to thank the men and her brother for their part in saving the capital, and also to catch up with Margaery herself. " _It was a necessary display… to show that kind of power, I mean. I sought to end things quickly_." He had looked away from her, and his expression was tired and ancient beyond his years. " _I try to not to use my gifts, because… it is so_ tiring _. Even_ now _I feel_ weak _, and doubt I could conjure wildfire again any time soon_."

And then there had been the stir up by the High Sparrow the very next day, but after a few hours of calling the prince a heretic of the Seven, the High Sparrow spent another few hours with the king locked away in the Sept of Baelor.

He came back singing praises of how blessed the prince was by the light of the Seven.

"I hear," Lyas went on, as she gently washed Margaery's feet, "the prince has his chamber doors made entirely from melted silver stags. Can you believe it? Doors of silver!"

Manya shook her head.

"Prince Hadrian does not have silver doors, Lyas." Margaery laughed, "His brother, however, has golden doors I'm told. Harry thinks his brother is a little pretentious, but I like the fact that Prince Joffrey has a taste for the finer things in life."

"That boy is as spoiled as he is dimwitted." A voice of rosy thorns came from beyond Margaery's silver bathing tub. "And if he doesn't cut the umbilical cord from that mother of his, I dare say he'll be spoiled, dimwitted, dull, and alone for the rest of his life."

"Lady Olenna!" Lyas squeaked, "Lady Margaery is bathing!"

"I can see that, child. I'm not blind yet." Lady Olenna said, pushing Lyas out the way so she could sit at the edge of the tub. Margaery was entirely too used to her grandmother's behavior, so she simply rolled her eyes and accepted the soft spotted hand that was outstretched toward her.

"Grandmother, we've talked about this. This is not our castle, and you cannot—"

"Oh dear, don't be stupid, it doesn't suit you." Lady Olenna told her granddaughter swiftly. "Now then, Margaery, you're clever. Be a dear and tell your poor old half-daft grandmother the name of that big fish that eats all the little fish in the sea near Braavos."

"It is a shark, Grandmother, and if you're here to tell me that Harry is a shark and I'm the little fish, you may stay your words."

"Of course you think I'm here about that dull, dull boy." Lady Olenna rolled her eyes at Margaery, "No, I have different metaphors I'll use later one of these days about him and how much he confides the power he has at his fingertips… But… for now… I'm here, at this most private of times for young, self-conscious girls like these people think you are, to tell you about the real shark here in King's Landing: Queen Cersei."

"Grandmother, we've already prepared—"

Lady Olenna shushed her with a look, "I know I taught you how to silently curry favor with the people and gain power from the lords around you, but I've never had to teach you about dealing with a crazed queen who's about to lose all the power she's fought so hard to gain. Queen Cersei will be the most dangerous opponent of all to you, child, so be careful."

When Margaery appeared as though she would talk, Lady Olenna arched an eyebrow at her, daring the soon-to-be bride to open her mouth.

Margaery wisely kept her trap shut.

"Cersei is on her way out, and you are stepping in to a more powerful role than she did. You are marrying a beloved prince rather than a war-mongering king; a prince that is soon to become king in his own right. You've gained the love of the smallfolk here, and no one has a reason to loathe you the way they do Cersei Lannister. She will become angry toward you, hateful even. She will do anything to hold onto her power. You must not let her. That sow will just have to find another pasture to graze on, because you're time is coming to dawn."

"And if I'm such a sure thing, then why all the caution? Why is it only now that the queen warrants all these warnings?" Margaery asked as she rose from the tub, Lyas and Manya helping her from the water. Lady Olenna huffed as she moved to the doorway of the bathing chamber, looking bored as her granddaughter was toweled dry by the two maidens. Manya brushed her hair until it just as perfect as flower petels in bloom while Lyas anointed her with the rose-wine perfume of the Arbor plains. They dressed her in gentle green gown that was deep enough to remind people of Harry's eyes and elegant enough that it brought out her womanly shape of her petite figure. Lyas slid the gilded sandals onto her feet, while Manya fastened golden rose bracelets crusted with ruby roses around her wrists.

"Well, if I'm being honest, I thought the boy would have been killed by now… or at the very least will die a few months into your marriage…" Lady Olenna muttered, her voice uncharacteristically low as her eyes flittered about the room like she was trying to spot a Spider listening in or their conversation.

Or perhaps one of the little birds that had their ears to every word said within the capital.

"None the less, he's not dead, and after what happened last year with the flames and then the brown wolf-beast he keeps around, I figured he was going to outlive _me_ at this rate. He's a sure ticket to making you queen, and so long as you wrap him around your finger, you might not need him around for long to stay Queen of the Seven Kingdoms."

"Grandmother," Margaery smiled brightly, because the Queen of Thorns rarely showed caution for her words, but this was the wrong place to be so arrogant, "Harry is going to make me a wonderful husband. With him I hope to have many happy years, and even happier children."

Lady Olenna made a disgusted sound at the back of her throat, but smiled like the doting grandmother she was and hugged her freshly dressed sweetling. "Oh, child, I just want you to be happy… and powerful. It's what your father would have wanted."

"He's still alive, grandmother."

"Ugh, don't remind me. Shame on me that I didn't force my family's side of the brains into his head while I housed him in my womb." Lady Olenna kissed Margaery on the temple. "Just be sure to mind yourself carefully around Cersei Lannister. A woman who knows she's on the downhill of life is one of the most vicious enemies you can make for yourself. Trust your dear old gran, she should know… from having been on both sides of the coin at different points in life…"

"Of course, Grandmother." Margaery said sweet, dutifully.

* * *

In her dreams, Winterfell was the world's largest castle. But she did not have to dream much to know its immense nature. The endless stone maze with walls that seemed to shift and change behind her. She would find herself wandering down gloomy halls past faded tapestries, descending endless circular stairs, darting through courtyards or over bridges, her shouts echoing unanswered. In some of the rooms the grey stone walls would seem to drip blood, and nowhere could she find a window. Sometimes she would hear her father's voice, but always from a long way off, and no matter how hard she ran after it, it would grow fainter and fainter, until it faded to nothing and Arya was alone in the dark.

It was very dark right now, she realized. She hugged her bare knees tight against her chest and shuddered. But not from the cold of the North. Never from the cold. Below the yards of Winterfell were warming hot springs that made every stone and post as warm to the touch as freshly baked bread. She would wait quietly and count to ten thousand. By then it would be safe for her to go creeping back out and find her way home.

By the time she had reached eighty-seven, the room had begun to lighten as her eyes adjusted to the blackness. Slowly the shapes around her took on form. Empty eyes stared at her reproachfully through the gloom, and dimly she saw the rusted shadows of longswords.

She had lost the count.

She closed her eyes and bit her lip and sent the fear away.

When she looked again, the monsters would be gone. Would never have been. She pretended that Jon was beside her in the dark, whispering in her ear. Be calm little one, she told herself. Strong as a Stark. Fierce as a direwolf. She opened her eyes again. The monsters were still there, but the fear was gone.

Arya got to her feet, moving warily. The heads were all around her. She touched one, curious, wondering if it was real. Her fingertips brushed a rough stone. It felt real enough.

And then she gulped and shuddered again.

She was where she had not wanted to be.

Arya Stark had wandered her way into the Stark family crypt.

A place she had never wanted to step foot within.

The stone face of her grandfather was smooth beneath her hand, yet still held the roughness stone was known for and hard to the touch. She ran her fingers down the rusting blade, grey and sharp, a sword made of battling the darkness.

It made her shiver.

"It's dead," she said aloud. "It's just a statue, and grandfather would never hurt me."

Yet somehow the stone likeness seemed to know she was there. She could feel its empty eyes watching her through the gloom, and there was something in that dim, cavernous room that did not love her. She edged away, back from where she came. For an instant, she could feel her late grandfather's eyes pinning her with criticism, as if he was ashamed of her unease with death. Arya whirled, and then she was running. Another stone man loomed ahead, this one tall and eyes full of anger, but Arya did not even slow. She leapt past a woman whose face was slim but stern with pride and edged with grief, dashed through twins of mischief looks, and threw herself against the door that had been opened when it was normally sealed tight against the world.

Loose hairs stirred faintly against her skin. From somewhere far ahead of her, Arya heard noises. The scrape of boots, the distant sound of voices. A flickering light brushed the wall ever so faintly, and she felt warmer the more she settled. Arya saw that she stood at the top of a great grey well, a shaft twenty feet across plunging deep into the earth. Huge stones had been set into the curving walls as steps, circling down and down, dark as the steps to hell that Old Nan used to tell them of. And something was coming up out of the darkness, out of the bowels of the earth...

Arya peered over the edge and felt the warmth of darkness breath on her face. Far below, she saw the light of a single torch, small as the flame of a candle. Two men, she made out. Their shadows writhed against the sides of the well, tall as giants. She could hear their voices, echoing up the shaft.

"...and they'll just go on talking. Ranting like loons about the miracle you performed if we don't silence them," one said. "The rest will come soon looking for you as he did. A day, two days, a fortnight..."

"And what would you have me do?" a second voice asked in a tone Arya thought familiar. "I have cured the people for a few years now, and in return I take their everlasting loyalty to me and my line."

"But they will reveal too much, too soon. We should have taken them back to Dragonstone while we've the time." The first voice said urgently.

"No, the ones we took back to Dragonstone had been blacksmiths and former warriors. Who were the ones I've healed this time?" the second voice said, a teaching tone that Arya felt she knew well.

"Ship makers… sailors… You mean for them to create a fleet?"

"It is the reason I gave them all back their sanity without also curing all of them. If they do as I say, they will have new life in the light of a rising Western Empire… and if they defy me, they will be turned to actual stone folk."

"And you left that giant statue of yourself there… why?"

"For them to pray to. I will act as their god in human form, and they will see my miracles as divine, and my words as law." There was a smirk in that voice Arya knew all too well.

Harry was down in that warm darkness with someone else.

"The gods alone know why you hold them in such disdain," the first voice said. Arya could see a wisp of grey smoke drifting up off the torch, writhing like a snake as it rose. "If that is your plan, then that is what will come to fruition. The fools would not dare make a murmur's farce of you now that you cured their stone men in front their very eyes. You returned their sanity to them… and now they have a reason to be faithful to you as you have the cure to Greyscale over their heads… You're absolutely ruthless, brother."

Brother? Arya's breath caught in her throat. Who was this other person down there with Harry? She could only hear every other word as their voice went from mutters to normal speech within every other thing they said.

"Hmm, I suppose you could say that. However, I have no intention of breaking my words to them. They will build the fleet, man it, and sail it to Dragonstone within a month. And as they sail, I will cure those who sail ship by ship while also curing those that remain in the ruins to dig up artifacts for me. They will build temples to me, and carve out statues with the proper runes on them and I will continue to act as their… benefactor."

"So you fancy yourself a gentle God?"

"A _stern_ God, more or less. I have no time for soft words with those people. They will have the fleet of one hundred ships done by the next full moon, or they will find ten of their men turned completely to stone day by day."

"… ruthless God is more like it…"

"What you need worry about, dear little brother, is the Lannisters here and not the Stone men back in the Sorrows. I don't want them trying anything while here in Winterfell." Harry snapped suddenly, but the mysterious brother answered him back calmly.

"I will remind the knights and the men-at-arms to keep themselves in line least they deal with you personally."

"Good, make it so."

"Yes, my prince."

"Stop it." Harry complained.

"Can I ask a question, brother?"

"You already have, but go ahead."

"Smart ass…"

"Why do you not simply push the Lannisters out of court? They hold only so much power, and you could fill the court with people loyal only to you and father."

"And who would those people be, exactly? The hot-blooded, ill-tempered Baratheon family who is headed by Uncle Stannis and Uncle Renly, each as bad as the other? The stoic and solemn House Stark that wants nothing to do with the poison that is King's Landing? Or maybe the honorable House Arryn, which now has that crazy shrew and her sickly six-year-old?"

"The Tyrells—"

"Are greedy, yet patient." Harry sighed, it echoing up the black stairwell. "They'll never gain the amount of power they want. Even after I marry Margaery, she will be my wife and follow my lead long before she is a Tyrell puppet."

Harry turned on his brother, "And don't even _think_ of bringing up those disgusting Dornish whores! I would see Westeros burn in dragon fire before I ever allow Oberyn or his Sand Snakes a place in my court. Those fools think that Dorne is so much better than the rest of the Seven Kingdoms when it is they who are more foolish than all the other kingdoms combined. I swear, Aegon was too kind to stop the war when the Dornish got his sister-wife… He should have burned every castle and then every sand dune in his way…"

The mysterious brother turned away from Harry, for he was holding the torch and it moved when he did, "And here I thought Joffrey was the cruel one… You would burn the Dornish just for being a little arrogant?"

Harry sighed again, though this one was tired and heavy, "No, I would not. But they are a nuisance that can only be tolerated in small doses. If Dorne does incur my wraith, will you go against me?"

"Not if they incur your wraith before you strike." Again, the torch moved, being lowered and held out as Arya saw what she believed was the brother bowing at Harry's feet. "I am your most loyal supporter. If the Seven rose against, I would slay them all without hesitation. If dragons rose from Old Valyria with the ghost of their riders upon their backs, I would strip the heavens of lightning, and burn those hellfire-demons. If our own father passed you over for Joffrey, I would give you both their heads for even uttering such foolishness."

"That second one gives me an idea…" Harry muttered aloud, and then ruffled his brother's hair. "Rise, loved brother. You are not in question. I was only jesting at you."

"No, I mean every word! There is no jest for the love I have for you!" the brother shouted, making the walls shake with his voice.

"Peace, young Gendry, peace…" Harry's voice was feather soft, but it carried up to Arya from the suddenness of the silence that followed the brother's words.

The brother that was Gendry. Arya tasted the name on her tongue. It was not one she was familiar with. Gendry must have been the new one Harry had following behind him as a squire. She was not at all interested by the squires, who were little better than she at handling a sword or bow. She had been more captivated by Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of Morning, and Brienne of Tarth, a woman who had fought the knights in the South until she had caught Harry's notice and he had promised her to be the first woman knighted by the crown.

"Though, your words are quite amazing… I had no idea you possessed the same talents as me! Tell me, when had you gained power to pluck lightning from the heavens? Should I take you for a wizard? Shall I bid you to stop time, then?"

Gendry must have reddened at that, but Arya heard him chuckle. "Ask of me, the Great Wizard Gendry, no less if you want no more done."

Flames jumped from the torch into the air, and then they split. One fire became two. Then four. Then eight. And lastly, sixteen candle-small fires flickered in the darkness, all going up the spiraling staircase as they licked at the cold air. The tall shadows were now everywhere, and an instant later Gendry climbed into her sight holding the torch, Harry beside him.

"Show off…" Gendry muttered with good nature.

Arya crept back away from the well, dropped to her stomach, and flattened herself against the wall. She held her breath as her two cousins reached the top of the steps.

"What would you have me do about the Imp's trip with Jon Snow?" asked the torch bearing Gendry. Even in heavy boots, his feet seemed to glide soundlessly over the ground.

"Nothing. That's not for you to worry about. The Night's Watch are a neutral party as they guard the Wall and protect the realm from what lurks beyond the Fist of First Men."

"You and your Others talk…"

Harry stared hard at Gendry, who flinched back at the sudden look, "They have undoubtedly returned. There is no question of that."

Gendry shook his head, probably unable to believe such a thing as the Others. He was not of the North. He would never understand. "If you say they have returned, then I believe it."

Harry turned on heel, Arya noticing the shimmering black cloak on his shoulders that hung low and was the color of a starry night sky. "I want you to keep the Lannister men in line, and seek the counsel of the Winterfell blacksmith. I want you to keep up with your craft as I will have need of you in the future."

Gendry groaned, and Arya could understand. Smith work was dull and tedious. "I like being a blacksmith, I really do… But, why do I have to study even while we're here?"

"Because blacksmithing is done differently here and in Dorne." Harry smiled back at Gendry, "You know that."

"Aye, that I do."

Emerald eyes glittered in the darkness like a demon conspiring against pure maidens. "One more thing, brother. Tomorrow night I shall visit the Iron Bank and then Jorah with the Targaryen girl. Ser Arthur and you will make the appropriate excuses for me."

"I thought you were done with the Iron Bank…"

"I am, but Cersei is not. She went behind my father's back along with Littlefinger in getting a loan from the Bank of Braavos. I have… _convinced_ the bankers of Braavos that any missives sent to them from the Iron Throne are immediately to be reported to me."

"She's still so annoying a woman… And that Lord Baelish is nothing to sniff at either. Honestly, I believe he's the more dangerous of the two."

"Indeed. Which is why I'll be removing his head first when I ascend to the Iron Throne."

"And as for Queen Cersei…?" Gendry asked, but Harry waved the question aside.

"Cersei is stupid, and without fools to bend to her will as queen of the realm, she is not a danger at all. I'll banish her to Casterly Rock, and there she will die a wrinkled old prune. Baliesh, however, is one who knows that not all battles are fought with swords… He _needs_ to die. Sooner rather than later."

"And that bald eunuch, too." Gendry nodded.

"How fortunate I am…" the silk in Harry's voice was soft, but did nothing to hide the steel behind his words, "to have a little brother who feels it is appropriate to _lecture_ me."

Gendry flinched back, but recovered well as he lifted an eyebrow. "I have overstepped, beloved brother," he said with a deep bow. "I am only observing, not arguing. Not at all."

"Nevertheless, your eagerness to wipe out those that plot against me is well noticed. Cherished, even. Yet you must be patient. Varys has many friends and spies. Varys will serve his purpose first, and then I shall determine what way he will die; quick and peaceful, or filled with years of agonizing pain."

Gendry did not seem to have an argument. Did not seem to have any words as he stared at Harry's face. Harry's eyes were glinting in the torch light, and his lips had thinned into a narrow line. Harry was angry with memories, but Arya knew for some reason that Gendry was not silent out of fear for Harry's temper. No, Gendry was quiet because of respect for Harry's deeds. Harry had given him much, and Arya could understand that. Jon was the only one besides their father who treated her as Arya Stark instead of as a girl or Lady Stark of Winterfell. People who saw you for you were never given reproach for whatever tempers they might hold. Not only had Harry introduced Gendry to realms of skill and luxury beyond a bastard's most spectacular fantasies, but Harry was also a prince who obviously knew exactly how he wanted to accomplish his ambitions. He was obviously subtle to the point of appearing random, but try as she might Arya could not see the connection between Stone men from the Sorrows and anything Harry might have planned at Dragonstone.

Maybe her lord father would know the answer?

"Oh," Harry's fingers snapped, and all the lights in the darkness were extinguished as one aside from the torch… and the one nearest Arya. That candle light moved over her, and try as she might, it followed her like a stray. "Before I forget in light of the many thoughts and plans running through my mind… Arya… dear sweet little cousin…"

Not a second later, Harry was standing over her, his night sky cloak seeming to reach out at her like the creeping darkness.

"Will you do me a favor, young one?" Harry asked, his silk voice becoming all that silkier. Arya found it soothing and her eyes grew heavy. "Will you do your big cousin one little favor, sweet Arya? I need you to sleep, young one… Sleep and forget… Sleep… And forget… Sleep… Forget…"

Arya fell over, her mind a haze of darkness as she slumped into Harry's waiting arms. She could still hear the dark world around, even feel the shifting of her body as Harry carried her up and through the darkness.

* * *

"She will sleep well and forget all."

"That much I got from the spell of your honeyed words… But why do it? I thought you wanted her and that Snow boy to join you?"

"As much as she will play a part in things to come, I want Arya to remain a child a little while longer. Innocence is flitting at best, and unless my plans are disturbed, she will stay a child for a few years more."

"But what of the Snow—"

"Hush now, dear brother. Our tenacious little cousin sleeps. No more planning. No more scheming." Arya could practically feel the smile of Harry through her mind. "Let us away to our bed chambers after sneaking Arya into her own. This has shown me that we could do well with a little rest. I'm sick to death of schemes and talking and showing off to a bunch of folk. No more plans for today or tomorrow. I will visit only with the Iron Bank, and then spend the day surrounded by my family and loyal men. I think we could use such a revitalizing day, don't you agree?"

Gendry only chuckled. "As you command, my prince."

"Stop that."

* * *

Long after their voices had faded away, Arya could still see the light of the torch, a smoking star that bid her follow into the land of dreams. Twice it seemed to disappear, but she kept on straight into the darkness, and both times she found herself at the top of those steep, narrow stairs, the torch glimmering far below her. She hurried after it, down and down.

She must have crept after that torch light for miles. Finally, it was gone, but there was no place to go but forward. She found the wall again and followed, blind and lost, pretending that Nymeria was padding along beside her in the darkness. At the end she was shaken awake by her dressing maid, and wondering why she had dreamt such a strange dream in the first place.

And trying to recall it made it slip that much further from her mind.

Oh well, Arya decided, Harry had apparently forgiven her for when she had shown up Bran during archery lessons a while back. He told her to complete her lady lessons for the day, and then he would be around to collect for so they could practice with swords for a while.

Afterward, Arya didn't even remember dreaming at all that night.

* * *

 **So we now have a very small glimpse into Harry's plans for the future and his greatest powers: foresight and leadership. Harry doesn't wait for conflict where he can shine like Robert does because Robert wants to keep the peace through threat of power. Harry, however, is more in the line of enforcing the peace through his own powerful actions.**

 **Harry only makes grand displays of power when its to show off to the right people at the right time for the reasons he needs to. He showed off by killing the assassins in front of Garland because he knew it would create awe and fear in the people of the Reach, who he doesn't want challenging him, so he shows them he has the power to wipe them out selectively on a battlefield. He also loves Margaery, so there's points there. But as he said in the chapter, he hates making displays of power because it makes him feel old and tired... almost not himself when he does.**

 **In other words, Harry has power, but chooses when to use it for personal gain in cultivating the right image in people's minds. He also has the foresight to bend the image into something he can gain for later events, such as when Garland told Margaery that it would be wise to continue her plans to marry Harry, not just for the crown but for the _power_ Harry wields naturally. Harry also has the leadership ability to get people to come together in ways they would never do or think before in order to be of use to his ultimate goals.**

 **What are Harry's ultimate goals? I can't say, he hasn't shared them with me. All I know is that he wants me to pen this story for him as a way of making you all understand him better. See!**

 **Anyways, leave a comment in the REVIEW about what you think of the story so far. I try to use certain characters to tell different opinions on Harry as a person, so I might use people like Gendry, Margaery, and Arya more than others because of how close they are to him as people who love him dearly.**

 **Love it? Hate It? Marry It? Kill It? REVIEW!**

 **Next Chapter: November 19th**

 _ **Chapter Seven: Stark Emotions for the Starks**_

* * *

 **PS: And if you have anything you want to tell me, be them other good stories out there, ideas for stories, ideas for my stories, or even just want to say hell, please feel free to leave them in the REVIEW section of a story, or just feel free to PM me directly.**

 **Please, take note that I read EVERY SINGLE ONE of your messages and reviews to me. However, I am extremely busy as a person to where I may not have the five minutes it would take to answer back in a timely fashion. HOWEVER, I WILL ANSWER BACK EVENTUALLY, ESPECIALLY TO PM. I don't normally reply to reviews directly because I can normally answer questions in those at the start of the new chapter of the story. Yet and still, if you want me to answer you directly, just shoot me a PM and I will.**

 **Thank you all for the love and support you show this story. I hope you check out other stories that I've written and find some entertainment in those as well.**

 **HAPPY HALLOWEEN!**


	7. The Guiding Hand of Hadrian

**I apologize for how trash some parts of this chapter is. I've been working and re-working it, but everything just seems so over-the-top instead of naturally flowing the way it should be. Nevertheless, the scenes in this chapter are necessary to the plot, and so I had to have them in here. The next chapter is MUCH BETTER, I can assure you all of that.**

 **Also, if you have any suggestions for the story, please be sure to include them in either a REVIEW or PM directly to me. I will now be much freer to answer back.**

 **Oh well, enough of this blabbering… ON WITH THE SHOW!**

 **Chapter 7: The Guiding Hand of Hadrian**

* * *

Tyrion woke to the creak of old bedposts that were certainly not his own, and his palm resting on the plentiful bosom of a woman not yet paid.

"Uhhh… who's there?" the Imp asked, his voice hoarse though it was. The ill effects of wine were still on him, and Tyrion had no notion of the hour. How long had he slept this time? He was so heavy, so damnably weighed.

"Who?" he called again, more loudly. Torchlight spilled through the open door, but within the chamber the only light came from the stub of a candle beside the bed. He saw a shape moving toward him.

Tyrion shivered.

Here in Winterfell, every servant was loyal only to the Stark family.

And it went without saying that the Starks hated Lannisters with a frigid passion.

Then the man stepped into the candlelight, got a good look at the dwarf's pale face, and chortled. "Drown yourself in liquors, did you?"

Tyrion's fingers went to the great throbbing in his head from where his hairs rooted at his forehead to just below the crown of his nose. The proud drunk was still aching and the breast in his hand was still warm to the touch. "With a great pretty whore, yes."

"Pay her, and get me out of here… Where am I?"

"An inn just outside of Winterfell. You summoned me to you last night and told me to see you away from the dour Starks and into the warmth of a common woman."

"Aye, I remember now… Why do you listen to me?" Tyrion groaned, refusing to take his hand from the breast as he toyed with it unconsciously and used the other hand to rub at his eyes. The whore beside him moaned with a delightful softness even in her sleep.

"Because usually when you start talking the shit is followed by the hear the sound of coin purses placed in my hands."

"Ugh… you'll get no gold if I die in a place like this from this headache, Bronn."

His legs were stiff and sore as he finally eased himself out of bed. He massaged some life back into them and limped heavily to the doorway Bronn was guarding. Tyrion pulled up his trousers and did his garbs in order to appear at least decent. Bronn didn't seem to care as he kept his eyes on the gently heaving breasts of the whore who was still fast asleep.

"You know," Bronn began as he fetched Tyrion's coin purse from his belt, "where I come from… whores generally wake or are awake before their male guests. Let's them earn a little more for their troubles."

"I can assure you I must have made her earn every gold dragon. Throw her the purse, and let's go before she does awaken." Tyrion grumbled, "I'd hate for her to follow us back into Winterfell just for some secure business while I'm here."

"That good?" Bronn tossed the purse onto the bed where Tyrion had been. The girl turned toward the sound, but did not stir again from her slumber.

"That eager… she must be new." Tyrion glanced back at the sleeping girl for only a moment. "An experienced girl would have made the night last until the dawn by… as you say, waking before me to further the entertainment."

Bronn seemed to find that amusing.

"She's not too young… not old by a long shot either… Must have discovered something she liked in her new line of work." They closed the door to the cellar of a room, and strolled out proudly. There were other rooms in this dark and drab place, but no windows. The smell of sex and perfumes hung heavily in the strangely warm inn. Though Tyrion supposed the unusual warmth had to do with the hot springs that ran under Winterfell and its lands.

"Or realized there was a good line of work for something she liked." Tyrion countered, he and Bronn sharing a smile as they left the inn and mounted a horse.

As they were ushered into the castle by the still half asleep guards on duty, Tyrion patiently waited until the guards left their presence to get down to business.

"Did you recover what I needed, Bronn?" Tyrion asked as he and Bronn walked through the courtyard of the castle.

"Aye, that I did." Bronn said, his eyes catching every man that was within his field of vision. Even if Tyrion knew he would never be harmed by the Starks without just cause, it helped relax him that Bronn was so tense when normally the man was too lax. "All the reading material is in our quarters within the castle. And as for that other stuff… Well, let's just say it's in a _safe_ place."

"And the letter back from the Iron Bank? Harry said to expect it by owl." Tyrion reminded his companion.

"And that it came. Fast little bugger, that snowy white owl of his. The Iron Bank's missive is in your quarters. It came with two other letters as well, one from Harry that you missed last night and one from Dragonstone that you missed this morning."

"Damn, then I'm behind in our schedule." Tyrion groaned, but squared his shoulders for the long day ahead of him. "And knowing Harry, he's probably going to take the day to be with family and other such dribble. Let's make good use of the time he's affording us with his sentimental foolishness."

Tyrion greatly increased his pace, and Bronn smirked as he did nothing to keep up with the half man. "Come, we'll break our fast with my brother and then get straight to work. Have the normal lads gather a couple of ravens for the normal letters and then have Sed secure an owl from Ser Rodrick or Ser Arthur for what needs to go back to Dragonstone and the Iron Bank."

"How much gold is in it for me?"

"No gold this time, I'm afraid. You get to keep your legs, as Prince Hadrian has promised you." Tyrion smirked at that, but Bronn didn't seem to find that one amusing.

"Hate that guy… He just takes all the fun out of my being a sellsword through and through…"

"Actually, he takes full advantage. Sellswords generally don't have someone to miss them if they suddenly find themselves very _dead_."

"And they can't get reliable work without _legs_!" Bronn muttered hotly. That bloody prince got under his skin. He much liked the other one, a bit cruel and a little mad, but still willing to pay Bronn good coin for any deed done. Prince Hadrian, however, felt that some things Bronn did required little gold and more of his continued life among the realm of the living.

Don't get Bronn wrong, he probably liked living more than dying or being legless, but that didn't mean he had to like the corners Prince Harry put him in. It was all for the best though, as far as Tyrion was concerned. Bronn would just request more gold until the amounts bankrupted kingdoms if Harry didn't keep resting the prices to stable quantities. Bronn liked steady work, just like a good whore did, but his work was a touch more dangerous and sometimes he needed to be strong-armed into forgoing pay.

It kept Tyrion in some wealth, and kept Bronn on his toes.

All good for the realm, after all. If Bronn was the one with the sword, the skills, and the wealth, he would have probably killed Tyrion by now despite the friendly bond they held as client and bodyguard.

Tyrion swallowed a lungful of the cold morning air and began his laborious ascent of the steep stone steps that corkscrewed around the exterior of the tower the Lannisters were given for their stay. It was slow going; the steps were cut high and narrow, while his legs were short and twisted. The rising sun had not yet cleared the walls of Winterfell, but the men were already hard at it in the yard below.

"But speaking of pretty legs that don't wish to be unattached, is Margaery Tyrell making herself at home in King's Landing yet?" Tyrion asked as that brought a smirk back to Bronn.

"Aye, and the city's mad with love for her. She and her Tyrells have been carting food up from Highgarden and giving it away in her name. Hundreds of food carts and carriages each day. Breads and fresh greens. Tender meats and lean fish. Summer wines for the common people to enjoy and sweet drinks for orphan children. There's hundreds of Tyrell men swaggering about with little golden roses sewn on their doublets, and not a one is buying his own drinks. Wife, widow, or whore, the women are all giving up their virtue to every peach-fuzz boy with a gold rose on his teat."

"Good. The future queen is using her time with Cersei gone very well. Be sure that Sed sends a letter to Renly and then Stannis in ensuring no harm comes to her or the Tyrells. If they break a law, they get the good cells. If they rape a woman, however unlikely given their generous acts, we decide the harshness of the punishment. If they kill a man… well, let Stannis deal with that."

"The crown prince who doesn't pay has already seen to that. The Tyrells are to be treated as any other guests to the Iron Throne. He said that the Margaery girl was made aware of this before he left."

Tyrion sighed and shook his head, "If that's the way he wants it, then there must be at least three good reasons as to why. Fine, no letters to King's Landing."

"Good," Bronn smiled brightly, "I didn't feel much like doing anything anyway. Not without a purse of gold to jingle nicely at my hip."

* * *

"Well now, this is an awkward situation…"

That voice was enough to wind Noho Dimittis fear to the highest pitch.

"Baratheon…"

Standing in front of him and his eleven Braavosi guards was none other than Hadrian Baratheon. The man had appeared out of thin air!

And he looked quite amused.

"What is this? What's happened to hospitality, Noho?" the Baratheon walked to one side of the entrance hall they occupied. He had suddenly been there one second as Noho was walking right past the spot! The guards had been loafing around as they normally did, but after a moment or two they had gotten off their asses and actually pointed their spears at the crown prince.

Little good the spears would do them all, though…

Behind the prince was the boy, Gendry. Ugh, how the boy grinned mockingly at them.

"And here I thought Braavos was the land without fear. A place where every man, woman, and child walked the streets free of everything. Sadness, oppression, and most importantly: fear."

"Prince Hadrian," Noho collected his wits. He stepped forward a little, "how can we help—"

There was a bang and a flash of red light: Noho backed away as three of the guards fell. Another screamed as his spear was grabbed and he was tossed aside from it. Then the Gendry boy roared as he dodged two spears and used his arms to hit both spearmen in the throat. There was a roar of anger from the last four.

Noho backed all the way to the door into the main chamber of the Iron Bank, and opened it skittishly.

These fools were no match for Baratheon, even though there were ten of them against one of him and his half-brother: Baratheon was a warlock, as Noho knew, with prodigious skill and little patience. They all fell and remained unmoving as Baratheon waved a hand and stardust fell upon the ten men. They were breathing, but only because the wizard allowed it so.

Noho's eyes widened as he was lifted from the ground and bound in the air. His body went limb, and he fell under the control of the warlock. Baratheon made a gesture with his hand, and Noho had been forced into a kneeling position, his arms outstretched. Out of the corners of his eyes, Noho saw the Gendry boy passing him into the Iron Bank. Baratheon smiled at him as he moved past as well.

"Now entering, the Crown Prince of the Iron Throne, Lord of Dragonstone, and your current nightmare… Prince Hadrian Baratheon." Gendry announced in a clear and loud voice. Baratheon walked in, and Noho was dragged along on his knees as though strung by a fisherman's line.

The bankers looked momentarily perplexed, but then fear took over their expressions. Only one didn't seem to have the good sense to look afraid.

He was new.

"Noho," Baratheon's voice echoed in the spacious chamber, "now you may speak."

"Thank you." Was the first thing out of Noho's mouth as he felt control of his body return to him. He quickly clambered to his feet and scrambled over to the side of the chamber where his fellow employees to the Iron Bank were.

"How dare you?" the new boy, Sicyon Farmiih, snarled as he pointed a finger at Baratheon. "Guards! Guards! Remove this man from the bank!"

"I'm afraid," Baratheon smiled mockingly, "that your guards can be found sleeping on the job."

Sicyon sputtered, eyes wide before he turned to Noho. "Call the city watch! Do something!"

"There is nothing to do, newbie." Gendry the bastard sneered, "Be glad you still draw breath. My brother is in a good mood."

"I don't care—!" but he didn't get to finish as he grabbed his throat. His eyes rolled up into his head and he fell in a heap where he stood.

"My patience wears thin for fools, Noho," Baratheon said, his tone mild but warning, "Ensure that when I next arrive, there are no more like him."

After a brief look with his fellow bankers, Noho nodded. "We will see it done, Ser Prince."

"Now then," Baratheon made a half moon gesture in the air and chairs appeared behind all of them, even the unconscious Sicyon. "I'd like to keep this short as I merely wanted to ask a few questions before all this… unpleasant business started."

"Whatever can we help you with?" one of the elder banks asked, stroking his short white beard.

"If you would recall, we made a deal. It was some time ago, perhaps a few years pass, now… A deal that was mainly for any and all communication with the Iron Throne to come, specifically, through _me_."

Noho gulped down his rising fear. Beside him, his co-workers shuddered with whispers and sobs.

What fool had upset the one thing this power-hungry wolfsmen had asked them?

Baratheon's eyes glimmered like a slumbering dragon jewel, green as the deadliest poison money could buy.

"Well… I'm waiting."

* * *

Arya's stitches were crooked again.

She frowned down at them with dismay and glanced over to where her sister Sansa sat among the other girls. Sansa's needlework was exquisite. Everyone said so.

"Sansa's work is as pretty as she is," Septa Mordane told their lady mother once. "She has such fine, delicate hands."

When Lady Catelyn had asked about Arya, the septa had sniffed. "Arya has the hands of a blacksmith. She's all Stark, that one."

How she hated that woman…

Arya glanced furiously across the room, worried that Septa Mordane might have read her thoughts, but the septa was paying her no attention today. She was sitting with the Princess Myrcella, all smiles and admiration. It was not often that the septa was privileged to instruct a royal princess in the womanly arts, as she had said when the queen brought Myrcella to join them. Arya thought that Myrcella's stitches looked a little crooked too, but you would never know it from the way Septa Mordane was cooing.

She studied her own work again, looking for some way to salvage it, then sighed and put down the needle. She looked glumly at her sister. Sansa was chatting away happily as she worked. Beth Cassel, Ser Rodrik's little girl, was sitting by her feet, listening to every word she said, and Jeyne Poole was leaning over to whisper something in her ear.

"What are you talking about?" Arya asked suddenly.

Jeyne gave her a startled look, then giggled. Sansa looked abashed. Beth blushed.

But no one answered.

"Tell me," Arya said.

Jeyne glanced over to make certain that Septa Mordane was not listening. Myrcella said something then, and the septa laughed along with the rest of the ladies.

"We were talking about the prince," Sansa said, her voice soft as a kiss.

Arya knew which prince she meant: Joffrey, of course. The one that was not their cousin by blood or marriage. The one they called tall and handsome. She thought Harry was the tall handsome one, but since they were cousins it amounted to nothing where Sansa and Jeyne were concerned.

Sansa had even gotten to speak with Joffrey at the feast. Arya had to talk with the little fat Tommen about sweet rolls and wooden toys. Naturally.

"Joffrey likes your sister," Jeyne whispered, proud as if she had something to do with it. She was the daughter of Winterfell's steward and Sansa's dearest friend. "He told her she was very beautiful."

"He's going to marry her," little Beth said dreamily, hugging herself. "Then Sansa will be queen of all the realm."

Sansa had the grace to blush. She blushed prettily. She did everything prettily, Arya thought with sharp resentment.

"He's our cousin!" Arya spat in disgust.

"Beth, you shouldn't have said that," Sansa quickly corrected the younger girl, gently stroking her hair to take the harshness out of her words. She looked at Arya. "And he is not our cousin. He might be Hadrian's brother, but he is no relation to us. If we were to marry, it would be well-received in the eyes of the Seven."

"We hold to the Old Gods!" Arya felt her fists clench. Did her sister have nothing in her blood that was Stark?

Sansa shook her head as though Arya was too young or naïve to understand something that was going over her head. She twirled a lock of her long auburn hair. "What did you think of Prince Joff, sister? He said I could call him Joff! He's very gallant, don't you think?"

"Jon says he looks like a girl," Arya said, crossing her arms now. "I agree."

Sansa sighed as she went back to her perfect stitch work. "Poor Jon," she said with a sad shake of her pretty little head. "He gets jealous because he's a bastard."

"He's our brother!" Arya said, this time her temper rising along with her voice. She had been much too loudly. Her voice cut through the afternoon quiet of the tower room.

Septa Mordane raised her eyes. She had a bony face, sharp eyes, and a thin lipless mouth made for frowning. It was frowning now. "What are you talking about, children?"

"Our _half_ -brother," Sansa corrected, soft and precise. Sansa then smiled for the septa. "Arya and I were remarking on how pleased we were to have the princess with us today."

Septa Mordane nodded. "Indeed. A great honor for us all."

Princess Myrcella smiled uncertainly at the compliment.

"Arya, why aren't you at work?" the septa asked. She rose to her feet, starched skirts rustling as she started across the room. "Let me see your stitches."

Arya wanted to scream. It was just like Sansa to go and attract the septa's attention. "Here," she said, surrendering up her work.

The septa examined the fabric. "Arya, Arya, Arya," she said. "This will not do. This will not do at all."

Everyone was looking at her. It was too much. Sansa was too well bred to smile at her sister's disgrace, but Jeyne was smirking on her behalf. Even Princess Myrcella looked sorry for her. Arya felt tears filling her eyes. She pushed herself out of her chair and bolted for the door.

Septa Mordane called after her. "Arya, come back here! Don't you take another step! Your lady mother will hear of this. In front of our royal princess too! You'll shame us all!"

Arya stopped at the door and turned back, biting her lip. The tears were running down her cheeks now. She managed a stiff little bow to Myrcella. "By your leave, my lady."

Myrcella blinked at her and looked to her ladies for guidance.

But if she was uncertain, Septa Mordane was not. "Just where do you think you are going, Arya?" the septa demanded.

The door behind her opened, and in stepped her saving grace. Everyone bowed their heads, and Arya felt a familiar weight atop her head, ruffling her hair in a way she both hated and loved.

"She'll be leaving with me, of course, Madam Septa. Arya may be a lady in the making, but she is also a woman of the Stark family line."

Septa Mordane had the decency to curb her frown at Harry, but her eyes were like daggers that glared up at him. "She needs to learn her lady arts."

"And she will… another day. For now, I think she's enjoyed enough of your company. As has my sister. Come, Myrcella, we wait to the training lot."

Myrcella looked as upset as Arya had moments ago. "Do I have to? Mother will be upset."

"She'll live, as will you when you've learned to handle a blade well enough to keep an assassin at bay until help arrives. What I do as your eldest brother, Queen Cersei knows I do for your own good. Now come, and I will not repeat myself."

Arya felt sorry for the way Myrcella's face fell as she handed over her stitch work to the septa. However, she was too busy taking in the immense satisfaction in the shock on the septa's face. Harry didn't wait to see if Myrcella would actually follow as he turned on heel and made his exit. Arya made quick to follow, running down the steps as fast as her feet would take her.

As soon as she had caught up with Harry, she began to tell him everything. He was the only person who listened to her aside from Jon.

And after all, it wasn't fair. Sansa had everything. She was older. She could sew and dance and sing. She wrote poetry. She knew how to dress. She played the high harp and the bells. Worse, she was beautiful. Sansa had gotten their mother's fine high cheekbones and the thick auburn hair of the Tullys. Arya took after their lord father. Her hair was a lusterless brown, and her face was long and solemn. Jeyne used to call her Arya Horseface, and neigh whenever she came near. It hurt that the one thing Arya could do better than her sister was ride a horse. Well, that and manage a household. Sansa had never had much of a head for figures.

If she did marry Prince Joffrey, Arya hoped for his sake that he had a good steward.

Nymeria and Severus were waiting for her in the guardroom at the base of the stairs. Nymeria bounded to her feet as soon as she caught sight of Arya. Arya grinned. The wolf pup loved her. They went everywhere together, and Nymeria slept in her room, at the foot of her bed. If Mother had not forbidden it, Arya would gladly have taken the wolf with her to needlework. Let Septa Mordane complain about her stitches then. Nymeria nipped eagerly at her hand as Arya untied her. She had yellow eyes. When they caught the sunlight, they gleamed like two golden coins. Arya had named her after the warrior queen of the Rhoyne, who had led her people across the narrow sea.

That had been a great scandal too.

"…don't know why you cursed that wolf with that woman's stupidity…" Harry muttered, but Arya pretended not to hear him. He had some kind of distaste for Dorne that went back years and years before she was born. Whatever it was he carried it with him to this very day.

"Sansa, of course, had named her pup Lady, of all things! And she was talking about the Seven like they were our gods!" Arya went on, making a face and hugged the wolfling tight. Nymeria licked her ear, and she giggled.

"Hmmm," Harry hummed, probably paying her only the barest attention as with a simple call of his wolf's name it was at his heels. "By now that blasted Septa of yours has sent word to Aunt Catelyn and Queen Cersei. As if either woman could stop me from teaching you two how to defend yourselves."

Even still, Arya did not care to be found. The boys were at practice in the yard today. She wanted to see Robb put gallant Prince Joffrey flat on his back.

"Come," Harry whispered, and Arya heard the click of Myrcella's shiny shoes trailing at a subdued pace behind them.

"Don't worry," Arya said to the princess as they followed fast behind Harry, whose long legs allowed even his leisurely stroll to make them work to keep up. "I'll help you learn. It really is for the best, what with you as a princess and all. Not that you'll be taken hostage or something, but if the stories about what happened to Harry are true when he was our age, then you'll do good to at least learn your way around a dagger."

"It's not the learning," Myrcella's voice was soft and meek as her eyes stayed on Harry's back, "It's the _dirt_ … Brother Harry insists that every time we practice, we do it in the training yard. With all the dirt and mud… and grass… and _dirt_ … Why can't we practice in my room? Or his bed chambers? Or in father's throne room? I always get so dirty when I play with Harry…"

Arya felt her sympathies for the princess die a little after hearing that.

They arrived to the view of the whole yard. Up in a window in the covered bridge between the armory and the Great Keep, Jon sat on the sill, one leg drawn up languidly to his chin. He was watching the action, so absorbed that he seemed unaware of their arrival until the action stopped to see them approach.

"Gert down here, Jon!" Harry's voice rose above the dim, and Jon smiled so big and bright as he leapt down and rolled smoothly to his feet. Harry smirked at him, probably having taught him how to do so. Harry was always teaching them one thing or another. Usually things to save their lives if they were ever caught up in a fight they were ill prepared for, but sometimes he shared with them pearls of wisdom or tips to learn something they were not interested in.

It was one of the reasons Arya even bothered to show up to her lessons with the septa.

Jon gave her a curious look as he approached them, shakes hands with Harry as though they were men. "Shouldn't you be working on your stitches, little sister?"

Arya made a face at him. "Harry saved me. I wanted to see them fight. I wanted to practice my _other_ stitch work."

Behind them, the others had gone back to their training. A chorus of thuds and grunts started up as they all turned their attention to the training yard.

"A shade more exhausting than needlework," Jon observed, stroking his chin.

"A shade more _fun_ than needlework," Arya gave back at him. Jon grinned, reached over, and messed up her hair. Arya flushed.

They had always been close. Jon had their father's face, as she did. They were the only ones. Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair. When Arya had been little, she had been afraid that meant that she was a bastard too. It had been Jon she went to in her fear, and Jon who had reassured her while laughing hysterically.

"Why weren't you down in the yard?" Arya asked him.

He gave her a half smile. "Bastards are not allowed to damage young princes," he said. "Any bruises they take in the practice yard must come from trueborn swords."

"Oh." Arya felt abashed. She should have realized. For the second time today, Arya reflected that life was not fair.

"Which is foolish in itself," Harry said as he stood up straighter. His eyes were critical as they watched Bran whack at Tommen. "It doesn't matter who's holding the sword if they make you a better fighter. Ser Rodrick knows that, but I'm sure he was given words by Ser Jamie or another of the blasted Lannister men."

Arya watched her little brother defend against Tommen, who was now on the attack. "I could do just as good as Bran," she said. "He's only seven. I'm nine."

Harry didn't even bother to look at her as he answered with a wisdom Arya rarely grasped in the moment. "You're too skinny. Bran is a boy, and has been training for a while now. Even if he lacks in experience against you, you don't have enough of it to use against him. So he'll just hammer away at you until you fall."

"I'm fast… and can dodge." Arya disagreed, but this time it was Jon who answered, looking at her with a small frown.

"No, no, Harry is right. You'll think about that plan for a while. But we know you, Arya. You'll want to prove something to those watching and yourself. You'll try to match Bran blow for blow, and he'll win. He has the edge in endurance, strength, and form. You'll just tire yourself out trying to compete with him."

Jon suddenly took her arm to feel her muscle. Then he sighed and shook his head. "I doubt you could even lift a longsword, little sister, never mind swing one."

Arya snatched back her arm and glared at him. Jon messed up her hair again. They went watched Bran and Tommen circle each other. Both were wearing thick padding, and clutching wooden swords. Considering that they were huffing for air, and sweaty all over, it was clear that they had been at it for quite some time.

"You see Prince Joffrey?" Jon asked.

She hadn't, not at first glance, but when she looked again she found him to the back, under the shade of the high stone wall. He was surrounded by men she did not recognize, young squires in the livery of Lannister and Baratheon, strangers all. There were a few older men among them; knights, she surmised.

"Look at the arms on his surcoat," Jon suggested.

Arya looked. An ornate shield had been embroidered on the shoulder of the prince's padded surcoat. No doubt the needlework was exquisite. The arms were divided down the middle; on one side was the crowned stag of the royal House, on the other the lion of Lannister.

"The Lannisters are proud," Jon observed while stroking his chin. Arya had only just noticed that Jon was getting older. He had a peach hairs there now. "You'd think the royal sigil would be sufficient, but no. He makes his mother's house equal in honor to the King's."

"The woman is important too!" Arya protested.

Harry and Jon looked at each other before chuckling loudly.

"Aye, aye!" Harry snorted, "Perhaps you should do the same thing, little she-wolf. Wed Tully to Stark in your arms."

"A wolf with a fish in its mouth?" It made her laugh. "That would look silly. Besides, if a girl can't fight, why should she have a coat of arms?"

Jon shrugged. "Girls get the arms but not the swords. Bastards get the swords but not the arms. I did not make the rules, little sister."

There was a shout from the courtyard. Prince Tommen and Bran were rolling in the dust, trying to get up and failing. All the padding made them look like enormous turtles stuck on their backs. Bran was reaching for his fallen sword, scrambling for it while Tommen seemed to just want to regain his feet. The men began to laugh.

"Enough!" Ser Rodrik called out. He gave the prince a hand and yanked him back to his feet. Then he moved to Bran and did the same. "Well fought you two. Lew, Donnis, help them out of their armor." He looked around. "Prince Joffrey, Robb, will you go another round?"

Robb, already sweaty from a previous bout, moved forward eagerly. "Gladly."

Joffrey moved into the sunlight in response to Rodrik's summons. His hair shone like spun gold. He looked bored. "This is a game for children, Ser Rodrik."

Theon Greyjoy and even Harry gave a sudden bark of laughter. "You are children," Greyjoy said derisively.

"And neither of you have seen a day of battle." Harry snorted at his brother, who sneered.

"Robb may be a child," Joffrey spat. "But I am a prince. And I grow tired of swatting at Starks with a play sword."

"You got more swats than you gave, Prince Joff," Robb said smugly. "Are you afraid?"

Joffrey looked at him with a deadpan expression.

"Oh, terrified," Joff said dryly. "You're so much older." Some of the Lannister men laughed.

Jon looked on the scene with a frown.

"Joffrey, stop being a little shit," Harry told his brother. Joffrey's face colored the same as Sansa's hair.

Ser Rodrik tugged thoughtfully at his white whiskers. "What are you suggesting, my prince?" he asked.

"Live steel."

"Done," Robb shot back. "You'll be sorry!"

The master-at-arms put a hand on Robb's shoulder to quiet him. "Live steel is too dangerous. I will permit you tourney swords, with blunted edges."

Joffrey said nothing, but a man strange to Arya, a tall knight with black hair and burn scars on his face, pushed forward in front of the prince. "This is your prince. Who are you to tell him he may not have an edge on his sword, ser?"

"Master-at-arms of Winterfell, Clegane, and you would do well not to forget it."

"Are you training women here?" the burned man wanted to know. He was muscled like a bull.

"I am training _knights_ ," Ser Rodrik said pointedly. "They will have steel when they are _ready_. When they are of an age."

The burned man looked at Robb. "How old are you, boy?"

"Fourteen," Robb said.

"I killed a man at twelve. Prince Hadrian killed his first bandit at eleven. You can be sure it was not with a blunt sword."

"Quite right," Harry stepped forward, his full height that of a man twice his age. "I did the man in with a kitchen knife. And the man was drunk. There was blood everywhere."

Harry's eyes landed on the burned man, who stood up straight and flexed his shoulders. "Perhaps the Hound would like to reenact my childhood trauma here and now. Someone bring me a kitchen knife! NOW!"

Lew and Donnis scrambled toward the kitchens after Ser Rodrik sent them a look.

The burned man looked a little deflated at the waiting crown prince.

* * *

On the other side of things, Arya could see Robb bristle. His pride was wounded by the burned knight. Rob turned on Ser Rodrik. "Let me do it. I can beat him."

"Beat him with a tourney blade, then," Ser Rodrik said sternly.

"Joffrey has never used live steel a day in his little life. Don't be fooled by his posturing, Robb!"

Robb snapped to Harry's attention. "But today you will both learn a lesson. Either Clegane gets in that circle with me… or the two of you will. And it _will_ be with live steel!"

The burned man paled drastically as though he were issued a death sentence. To which Arya could somewhat understand. If the man stepped into the circle with Harry, he could very well die from the two Valyrian steel swords at Harry's waist. And if he injured Harry with the full court in the same castle grounds, his life would just as readily be on headsmen's block.

"How dare you try to have my sworn knight killed!" Joffrey shouted. He looked a little crazed, "I'll be your foe, brother. But take care in what you wish for. I am not a small boy of ten any longer!"

"It would never work." Robb said, his temper subdued as he went toward thinking things through. "Joffrey would not make a good partner after all this. We'd just as likely end up killing each other than be any closer to hurting Harry."

"Have no worries, Stark." Joffrey said, removing his coat and furs as he was handed a sword. It dipped a little in his hand. "I will be very focused on gutting my prideful brother from nose to naval."

While the others in the yard were staring and gasping, Harry barked with laughter so loud that Arya swore the ground shook. "That's the spirit! That's what I like to hear! When you come at me, you come to kill! You better be of the same mind, Robb Stark, or you'll be the one nursing wounds."

Robb had a hard look on his face as he was prepared for the fight. Ser Rodrik went to prepare Harry, but he was pushed away as Harry jumped into the circle with his hands clapping thunderously.

"Finally, finally! Joffrey may not be able to back up any of his little yelps, but at least my shit of a brother has some of our father's fire in him! Finally! I was beginning to think he had a woman's wound! Always on and on about lowering himself and not getting dirty like some nurse-maid or septa!"

Joffrey almost immediately reddened at the insult, "How dare you! I am a prince!"

Harry's near-crazed look of enjoyment darkened to something evil in nature. "And I am the _Crown Prince_. _Your_ crown prince. So, when you enter this ring, little brother, bow and I might not lob off your ears for offending me."

Joffrey paled in that same second as he was about to hop over the wooden ring.

"You are below me in the pecking order, boy. You wanted a duel of live steel, and so you have it. I will be the one to indulge your childish fantasy, little brother. Come and play with the me, if you dare."

Arya watched as Joffrey faltered. Harry was well known to be one of the best swordsmen of his generation, and was already knighted. He had been trained by two of the best—if not _the_ _best_ —knights in all the Seven Kingdoms.

Ser Arthur Dayne and Ser Barristan Selmy. The Sword of Morning and Barristan the Bold.

"There'll be none of that crossbow shit today, Joff. Good as you are with it, a knight would have your head before you could even reload the second bolt. NOW GET YOUR ASSES IN HERE! JOFF! ROBB!"

They immediately were in front of him. They were shaking a little, but looked to be getting control of their fear. He then turned his eyes toward Arya, Jon, and Myrcella. Harry's gaze was heavy, as if it weighed on her shoulders.

"Don't you dare look away. Any of you. This is how little lords and princes die. Because they talk bigger than their bollocks." Theon snigged, but instantly shut up when he found a dagger in the wall next to him courtesy of Gendry on Harry's furious look at the Greyjoy.

Arya had the feeling that if Harry had thrown the dagger, it would not have been in warning.

"So be it," Ser Rodrik sighed as though he were aged just by what he was seeing, "I can't seem to stop this madness. The Queen and Lady Stark will be in my ear all day for this… or _have_ my ear off…"

"Call it, Ser Rodrik. I grow _impatient_."

"Don't kill them. Don't knock them out. Only give shallow cuts and bruises." Ser Rodrik then turned toward Joffrey and Robb, who were busy working themselves up for a fight against Harry. "Aside from that, boys, protect yourselves and be smart."

"We shall be just fine." Joffrey sneered, spitting at the ground in front of him. In front of Harry.

Harry only grinned.

"We need a plan." Robb said, but Joffrey was too busy glaring at Harry with all his might.

Around the courtyard, Arya witnessed as the yard grew smaller and smaller as many men-at-arms gathered to watch the Crown Prince duel both his cousin and brother at once. Included in the crowd, Arya saw her lord father and even the king up in the window overlooking the training yard as well as the Kingsguard. She wondered how long they had been there.

Ser Rodrik sighed again, but raised a hand this time. "Very well, stand ready."

But then an arrow flew from the window overlooking the yard. It had come from Arya's father, who looked all the part of the stern Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. The arrow had given Harry's hand a scratch as he was about to draw the sword _Prongs_ from its scabbard. Even the king looked deeply vexed by Harry.

"You draw that sword, and you'll have me as your opponent as well, Your Highness." Lord Stark said for all the court to hear. Harry didn't look worried.

"Damn it all, Ned, he doesn't care! He's probably all cock-hard at the idea of fighting father, son, and brother… One of you little shits down there give my son a training sword before I chose to fight _EVERYONE_ in a reenactment of the Ruby ford!"

This was when Harry's grin dropped… and everyone paled a bit. The men-at-arms when scrambling for the closest tourney blade they could get out of the armory. Harry caught it without even looking as he continued to stare up at his lord-uncle and king-father.

"It would figure that you two old men have concern for the lives of your young boys…" Harry said, as though to himself but loud enough for everyone to hear. He was unhooking his swords from his belt and his outer garb. Gendry took things as they were handed to him, and Harry was left in the cold of Winterfell with only a tunic shirt his trousers, a belt to hold them up, and his shoes still on. The sword in his hand was very dull, seeming to have no edge at all. It was the length of his arm, shorter still than Lily and Prongs, but not by very much. "No matter, they'll learn this lesson regardless of your mothering… It is the will of the gods, Old and New."

The king snorted loudly at that, "Will of the Gods, he says… Little shit is talking like a king already, and I ain't even nearing the grave. Justifying slaughter with gods. HA! Damn boy amuses me to no end."

* * *

Robb took his sword in both hands, testing its weight as he never let his eyes leave Harry. Joffrey, who was next to him, had a smaller sword that appeared lighter in nature. The blond flicked the sword a few times, but always came back to point the tip at Harry's heart.

"Begin!" Ser Rodrik signaled, and immediately, Joffrey ran at Harry, leaping as his sword flashed from right to left.

Harry didn't move, orbiting his blade as he slapped Joff's sword harmlessly to the side. Harry's blade came up quickly, but Joffrey was saved some bruised ribs by Robb finally making it to the battle, parrying Harry so Joffrey could get back.

Joffrey added his own sword into the mix, locking it above Harry's so he was stuck between the two younger combatants. That was when Joffrey took a hand off his blade and backhanded Harry across the face.

The crowd gasped, but Arya saw for a fact that Harry's face had not moved an inch.

In fact, he was smiling.

The next second, Harry headbutted his brother in the side of his head by his right ear. Joffrey cursed aloud and broke the deadlock. Then Harry's foot came up to kick Robb in the chest, but he blocked with the flat side of his sword. It still sent him skidding back a few meters, so impressive was Harry's strength.

"Lesson number one, ya little shits." Harry said as he shouldered his edgeless blade. "Strength is essential to using a blade. The stronger you are, the fast you'll swing a heavier blade, or the more powerful your blows will be from a smaller sword. I've built my strength up quite a bit. The two of you need to start building your muscles, or you'll never be able to compete with the knights in the South, especially those from the Vale."

Robb stepped over cautiously to Joffrey's side, but thankfully the prince was keeping a calm head about the incident he had sustained. The two partners had a muttered conversation, one that went on for almost a minute before they seemed to come to an agreement.

Harry allowed it no more as he near instantly closed the gap between them. Joffrey and Robb separated to either side of Harry, taking him from two fronts. Harry pressed them hard, his blunt sword flashing against their live steel in a deadly dance that saw Harry turning from one to the other almost like a Dornish dancer spinning to entertain foreign guests. The strength of the blows Harry was sending their way put them on the defensive as much as they gave to their attack. Arya could tell that if they didn't do something soon, their little plan would fail utterly fast.

And there! There it was! Joffrey had locked Harry's blade under his own. Seeing the opportunity, the same as her, Robb made to intercept, but was surprised to see how Harry barely glanced up at him. Harry slid to one side, and forced his contest with Joffrey up high, well enough that it almost effortlessly joined Robb into the parry.

The only way Robb made room for breathing then was when his foot came up a half second before Harry's own, kicking the crown prince away from them as Joffrey kept Harry's blade preoccupied by grinding the two together.

Harry seemed all too pleased with how well the two were working together and keeping him at bay.

"Lesson number two, boys." Harry said as he swung the blunt blade in front of him. "Speed. The faster foe will almost always win. Faster to swing. Faster to defend. Faster to counter. Faster to think. The quicker you are, the more likely your chances of victory. The slower you are… you might as well be a cake ready for carving."

"I don't need your advice!" Joffrey yelled, rushing at Harry, who gave him a bland look.

"Too slow…" Harry said aloud, slashing his sword up just as Joffrey got within range.

Joffrey leapt back, blinking a bit as he checked his person. Harry had obviously made contact with him, but it wasn't until a second later when everyone in the courtyard realized what Harry had done.

"What'd he do? What did he do?" Arya asked frantically to Jon, who was pale and staring at Harry's smug face.

"He… he cut the arms from Joffrey…" Jon said in a far away tone.

"His arms?" Arya looked back at the battle. Joffrey still had both his arms, keeping the steel sword gripped in both hands. "Harry didn't take his arms! He's got both! See!"

"Not his actual arms, Arya." Jon shook his head before pointing to something on the ground in front of Harry. "Look there. Those arms! His coat of arms!"

And indeed, Harry had cleanly sliced the coat of arms from Joffrey's shoulder. The act of doing so must have taken more skill than Arya would have believed possible from any knight not found in a fairytale.

Her lord father and the king seemed to grow stone-faced at the action, but they weren't rushing down to stop things, so they must have thought it okay.

A second wind from the two partners in battle saw the crown prince fall back on the defensive, with Robb and Joff playing off each other quite well. It was obvious Harry was holding himself back to see what they could do. To say how much they despised each other, Robb and Joffrey made a great team when put together. The barely had to say a word to one another as they moved in perfect coordination. While one took Harry's attention the other tried to move in for the kill. When one tired of holding Harry's strength back, the other moved swift enough to clear up some space. The kept Harry on the back foot for a long while, making him circle the field in order to keep them both at bay.

However, something on Harry's face said that he had grown bored of playing with children. He was a trained knight, and they had barely begun to learn the craft of the sword. It would have been ridiculously easy for Harry to end things in minutes, if not seconds, if he had so chosen.

Now was simply the time to prove that, Harry's face said as he was no longer between Robb and Joff when they tried a pincher move to finally score a blow against the crown prince. They have grown too confident in themselves, Arya could almost hear the words in Harry's head. They actually believe they stood a chance. Time for them to know how easily I could kill them at any time.

Robb looked up just in time to glimpse the bottom of Harry'sleather boot as it came down on his face and smacked him tumbling toward the mud. Joff watched with barely contained shock as he was forced to clash against Harry, who quickly sent the blond backing away with a succession of weaving, flourishing thrusts that drove Joffrey's blade out of line while the stabs reached for his heart.

Robb got up from the mud as quickly as any would dare, launching himself like a cannon toward Harry's now exposed back.

And the crown prince half turned, gesturing casually while holding Joffrey at bay with a one-handed bind. Harry didn't move as he dodged Robb's slashes at him, even when they came from impossible to dodge angle that would have cut down ten less impressive knights in a row. Then Harry began to needle him. He pushed Robb's shoulder as he ducked under a slice for his head. Kicked him in the knee as he raised his leg over a low sweeping slash. Punched him in the chest when Joffrey had finally backed off as seeing that they weren't going to catch Harry any time soon. And when Robb tried to get away from him, Harry had grabbed the live blade between his fingers, watching as Robb stared at him in shock while desperately trying to pull away.

Harry put the tip of his own edgeless blade to Robb's neck.

But then he was forced to swish the blade up, cutting an arrow in half as it came down from Arya's lord-father, Eddard Stark. Harry finally let Robb go, but the damage had already been done. Robb was leaning heavily to one side; the side Harry had not been beating down on.

Joffrey was caught by surprise when Harry had silently made it in front of him, and was left breathless as Harry slammed into him and drove him back to flip over the circle's wooden fencing. His sword came loose from his slackening fingers and clattered to the ground.

Both boys were down, or well enough to it. Joffrey was out of the ring, breathless and half stunned. Robb was using his sword like a crutch, warily watching Harry as he tried his best to stand up right.

In less than five minutes, Harry had broken their near perfect teamwork with his superior skill and strength.

"Final lesson, lads." Harry breathed, and breathed it hard. The two had apparently taken more out of him than Arya thought. She only now became aware of the fact that Harry was sweating and his hand was bleeding red drops onto the muddy snow of the yard. "If you can't win with honor, don't fight fair. Use anything and everything you can to stay alive. I don't care if you have to bite off their bollocks. Whatever lets you fight another day is all that matters."

* * *

Joffrey was finally coming back to the world around him, groaning as he lifted himself from the ground. One of the men-at-arms made to help, but Joffrey pushed him away as he stumbled onto his feet. His perfect blond hair was caked with dirt and mud, and it looked as though Harry had split his lip.

When Joffrey simply walked away from the court yard, no one made to stop him. In fact, they cleared the way for him as the burned man followed after the second prince. Robb at least had the decency to bow out of the ring but almost fell in doing so. He left Harry in much the same manner, stumbling back to the castle while everyone watched and parted to allow him passage. Theon followed after him.

There was no clapping. No cheering. Not a single person did more than mutter to each other about what they had seen.

And from what Arya's ears had picked up on, most agreed that Harry had been harsh, but true in his lessons.

The Warden of the North, and the King both approached the sparring circled, the latter shaking his great mane of dark hair as he kept his laughter to himself. The former was more restrained, but no less amused by the way things had played out.

"I told you, Ned! I told you! Damn boy just doesn't have it in him to play nicely with anyone."

"It isn't about playing, Robert." Arya's father said in a far more conversational tone, "Harry was quite correct in the wisdom he gave here. They were thinking that because they were a prince and lord's son, they could overcome the gap in ability between themselves and Harry. They were wrong. If an enemy knight or sell-sword had been their foe, we'd be without sons."

"But you still owe me three hundred dragons, Ned! I told you he'd have them either carted or stumbling away to lick their wounds!"

"You also said that even with a blunt weapon, he'd carve them apart." Eddard Stark gave Harry an approving look. "I am at least glad you refrained from doing so. I can see that Ser Barristan taught you quite well."

"And Ser Dayne," Harry said as he finally tossed aside the edgeless sword after giving it a hard look. "They call it the Cake Carving technique. It is useful when you don't have a good weapon like Prongs and Lily at your side."

"What about the other lad? Jon boy? Jon boy, get your ass over here!" the king called out, making Jon flinch. "You get into the ring with Harry here! Let him carve you up next!"

"Jon is a shade more skillful than Robb and Joffrey. He actually knows the limit of his skill versus an opponent. Harry would still obviously win, but it wouldn't be so easy. I dare say he might even give Harry a little exercise."

"Are you willing to put your coffers to your word, Lord Stark?" the king laughed. "Let's say _five_ _hundred_ dragons this time! Not a scratch to Hadrian, but all the lumps in the world to your Snow boy!"

"I will take that bet, Your Majesty." Ned turned to see Jon approaching them. "Jon is of some skill, as my brother has been to see him often. He will do well against Harry."

"Let's see then!" The king roared, looking at Harry. "Boy, pick up that piece of junk and hack away at Snow here! I've got five hundred golden dragons riding on you! Hop to it! Chop, chop!"

Harry sighed, "I've told you about your gambling problem… Almost as bad as your drinking…"

Arya watched Jon. His face had grown as still as the pool at the heart of the godswood. Finally, he climbed over the small wooden fencing and hopped into the ring. He was rolling his shoulders, but his expression was still unreadable.

"I'm not like Prince Joffrey and Robb," Jon said as he picked up the sword Robb had left stabbed into the ground. "I've nothing to prove but to myself."

"I know, but you better prove to me you're worth my waiting warm bath." Harry replied as he lifted the blunt sword and pointed it directly at Jon. "Otherwise, you'll be carved up like a freshly baked cake for wasting my time."

Arya bent to scratch Nymeria behind the ears. The wolf rose and rubbed against her. Ghost had gone and sat beside the training circle in order to better view Jon. Arya had no clue where Harry's wolf, Severus, had gone off to. It was a strange one, she felt. It roamed to where it pleased until Harry called for it. Almost as if it had other plans in mind.

"There you are, young lady!" Reluctantly, Arya turned around to the voice that had shouted into the courtyard.

It was worse than she had thought. It wasn't Septa Mordane moving toward her furiously.

It was Septa Mordane and her mother.

* * *

 **Nothing to really say for the end of this chapter. It was supposed to be completely different, but my computer erased the end of the chapter, I have since decided to simply split them in two since the chapter was going to be nearly 20,000 words anyway.**

 **REVIEW and/or PM if there are any questions, comments, or concerns.**

 **Until Next Time, See Ya!**


	8. Stark Emotions, Lannister Lives

**A/N: I just… I have no excuse why this took so long anymore. Even with computer mishaps, and everything else going on, I should have finished this chapter** _ **AGES**_ **ago. It should have turned out** _ **MUCH**_ **better than this! I have no excuse for my poor performance in this. I normally take pride on how well I can convey thought to word, and make people follow my story in their heads, but this… It sucks.**

 **I like the first half, but that was not even meant for this chapter. The whole focus of this chapter was supposed to be on Tyrion and his underhanded handling of Bran's fall right under Harry's nose. This chapter was meant to convey how Tyrion is trying his best to prove his loyalty to Harry's greater cause** _ **and**_ **to keep his family off the chopping block. In this chapter, I have failed this. I have no excuse. All I can do is hope to be better in future chapters.**

 **I** _ **WILL**_ **do better in future chapters.**

 **Chapter 8: Stark Emotions, Lannister Lives**

* * *

"How did this happen?" Harry turned to Gendry with a storm of fury in his eyes, but Gendry had no answers for him.

"The dwarf man says he fell from the tower." Gendry looked to the stone floor at his feet instead of meeting his brother's eyes. "Lucky for him, he fell in hay."

"HE SHOULDN'T HAVE FALLEN AT ALL!" Gendry scrambled away as Harry took wild swings for his head.

"It isn't my fault! I was with you on the hunt!" Gendry tried to reason as Harry's shoulders heaved up and down with his anger.

"We all were…" Lord Stark's voice was dry and hollow, like a lone tree in the dead of winter.

Outside, snow swirled through the castle gates, and the yard was all noise and chaos, but inside the thick stone walls it was still warm and quiet.

Too quiet for Gendry's liking.

Everything had been perfectly fine when they left at dawn. The king wanted wild boar at the feast tonight. Prince Joffrey rode with their father, so Robb and Gendry had been allowed to join the hunters as well. Benjen of the Night's Watch, Jory, Theon Greyjoy, Ser Rodrik, and even Ser Jamie had all ridden out with them. It was the last hunt, after all. On the morrow they left for the south.

Bran had been left behind with Jon and the girls and Rickon.

But Rickon was only a baby, the girls were only girls, and Jon and his wolf were nowhere to be found.

Jon seemed deep in thought these days, and even Gendry found it very boring to sit around wherever he was to be found. Gendry did not know why. He would throw himself from the highest tower in King's Landing before even thinking to join the Night's Watch of his own free will. But apparently there was great honor in the Night's Watch. Gendry did not see this. The Night's Watch might have been great once, long ago, but now they were just a band of cowards and rapists who were sent there rather than die in a prison or execution. Like real men, in Gendry's eyes.

To Gendry, nothing was as good as being south of this snowy wasteland with his brother, Harry. Hell, he could even tolerate Joffrey's insults and demanding behavior so long as he had Harry to show him how to be a true Baratheon.

But still, today was not a good day to be around Harry. For Harry was furious, and His Was The Fury.

Somewhere off in the distance, a wolf was howling. Crows circled the broken tower, waiting for corn.

"Maester Luwin is an accomplished man of science and healing," Lord Stark said, but there was no confidence in his voice as Gendry had come to know it. "And he has the Imp knowledge at his disposal as well. Tyrion Lannister has been most fervent in aiding us in this dark time…"

Harry looked like he wanted to start swinging again, so Gendry back all the way to the door. But Harry did not raise his fists. He only clenched them at his sides as his mouth formed a thin white line. "Tyrion has his reasons, I'm sure…"

Harry shared a significant look with Gendry that told the younger male he was not to speak a word. As if he would. Gendry was loyal to only Harry. If Harry had told him to be the one to put young Bran at death's door, he would have done it morbidly, but obediently.

He would slit the throats of all the Starks and all the Baratheons and all the Lannisters if Harry simply snapped his fingers with a thought for it to be done.

But Harry never did, and so they all continued to live by his grace.

Except now young Bran was possibly dying without Harry's consent.

That was the problem. At least to Gendry's understanding.

Harry would be a lot more sentimental about it, but Gendry only saw it all in terms of if it was his brother's will that it be done or not.

Harry had not wanted Bran to be harmed in any way, and so Gendry was simply waiting for the order to kill whoever or whatever had caused Bran harm.

Unfortunately, Harry was too blinded by grief and anger to investigate the scene.

And he had yet to give Gendry leave to do so himself.

And if Gendry were to bring it up while his prince was so distraught… well, Gendry quite liked his head attached to his shoulders…

But, if Gendry were a more sentimental fellow, he would be sorry for Bran. Mourn the young lad, even. Bran had been so excited. So full of energy. The boy could scarcely wait to be off to the south. He spoke at every meal how he was going to ride the kingsroad on a horse of his own. Not a pony, but a _real_ _horse_. His father would be the Hand of the King, and they were going to live in the red castle at King's Landing, the castle the Dragonlords had built. Harry shared many stories with the young Stark about the ghosts there, and the dungeons where terrible things had been done, and about the dragon heads on the walls. It gave Bran a shiver just to think of it, and they'd all share a laugh at him in good cheer. Bran also told tales of how he'd be a knight himself someday, one of Harry's Kingsguard. The king boasted loudly with chalice in one hand and turkey leg in the other how the Kingsguard were the finest swords in all the realm. There were only seven of them, and they wore white armor and had no wives or children, but lived only to serve the king. Bran knew all their names. Serwyn of the Mirror Shield. Ser Ryam Redwyne. Prince Aemon the Dragonknight. The twins Ser Erryk and Ser Arryk, who had died on one another's swords hundreds of years ago, when brother fought sister in the war the singers called the Dance of the Dragons. The White Bull, Gerold Hightower. Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning. Barristan the Bold.

Ser Arthur got a right bit of teasing since he was officially not serving in his capacity as a member of the Kingsguard by traveling with Harry. Though his position was not replaced since Harry was to be crowned king sooner or later.

Turning to the open window, Gendry saw his king-father addressing the two Kingsguard that had come north with him. Gendry watched them with disgust since neither truly deserved the title of Kingsguard. Not like he would in a few years' time.

Ser Boros was a bald man with a jowly face. From his few interactions with the man serving as Harry and Ser Arthur's squire, Boros proved to be a short-tempered man with half the skill of any halfway decent knight of the realm. He was like an angry paper shield, and blatantly loyal to Queen Cersei with the way he proudly walked around wearing the golden lion brooch. If only Gendry were a few years older he'd put Boros on his backside. The disgusting coward…

Gendry despised Ser Meryn for completely different reason. Meryn was no coward, but sly and cruel to a fault. The man had droopy eyes and a beard the color of rust. Gendry was sure that Meryn came from very little with the way he dressed his armor in shirts of enameled scales chased with gold. He wore a tall helm with a golden sunburst crest, greaves and gorget and gauntlets and boots of gleaming plate, a heavy wool cloak clasped with a golden lion brooch. It seemed that Cersei paid better for cruelty than she did cowardice. Meryn had the training of a knight, but the talent of a common thug.

Honestly, if the Griffguard did not ride with Harry, then those two flour sacks would have been pushed from a tower themselves instead of little Bran.

Lord Stark spoke at that moment, rousing Gendry from his staring off in the distance to where the king and knights disappeared, probably to wait for a proper number of minutes before searching out his good-brother, Lord Stark, while others handled the incident. Gendry scowled. His father was losing nerve with the tension between the Lannisters and Starks. He had to know there was something unusual about the timing and very nature of Bran's sudden fall despite seeing the boy climb like a circus monkey on several occasions, with or without Harry at his side.

"There is more yet to cause us grief, nephew…" Lord Stark rested his head in his hands, rubbing hard at his face as fatigue set in. It was only midday and already the older men were drained form the hunt and the news of Bran's fall from an empty tower.

"What is there that need cause us more sorrow, uncle?" Harry whipped around from where he was pacing the floor. "Has Ricken fallen ill? Has Jon been taken while our backs turned? Has—"

"Hold your tongue less you curse us further, boy!" Lord Stark stood, his face red and raw with lack of sleep and mounting stress. His voice was that of Lord Stark, and not as Uncle Ned as Harry knew him. The Lord of Winterfell reached into his pocket, producing a letter of some sort. "Maester Luwin brought this in the night… I thought not to read from it, but my lady wife was concerned it might hold ill news. I fear she may have been correct, especially with recent tragedies in our midst."

Harry was quick to take the letter offered for his reading, Gendry did not move from his place beside the window. Harry would share the contents of the letter with him later, all that he would not gleam from context. Lord Stark gave him a sharp look through red-rimmed eyes, but it was the same as one that bid him leave. No, this was one of secrecy.

Gendry was not to say a word, less his life be forfeit.

If they were in better spirits, Gendry might have smiled. Lord Stark was beginning to trust him just that bit more. To see him as Gendry and not simply some bastard brother Harry carted around with him out of pity.

"There was no rider. Only a carved wooden box, left on a table in Luwin's observatory while he slept."

"So, someone in my father's party brought it to him. Someone not exactly loyal to the Lannisters if they had to sneak around to deliver such a thing." Harry muttered, his face tight with nerves.

"Inside was a fine new lens for the observatory, but it held a false bottom. The intent of such pairing of gift to secret was clear: we were to pay close attention to it. To see clearly its intent."

"Indeed," Harry murmured, then a small smile gave across his face as he looked up to Lord Stark. "I'm more than sure it was Luwin and Aunt Catelyn who worked that out."

"Others take you for your cheek, boy." Lord Stark shook his head, but did not share in Harry's fleeting smile.

Gendry thought of old Maester Luwin. The maester was a small grey man. His eyes were grey, and quick, and saw much. His hair was grey, what little the years had left him. His robe was grey wool, trimmed with white fur, the colors of the Stark family. Its great floppy sleeves had pockets hidden inside. Luwin was always tucking things into those sleeves and producing other things from them: books, messages, strange artifacts, toys for the Stark and king's children. With all he kept hidden in his sleeves, Gendry was surprised that the old man could lift his arms at all. Often he caught the man in thought, the fingers of his hand stroking the collar of his order; a heavy chain worn tight around the neck beneath his robe, each link forged from a different metal.

Harry noticed something, looking up to lock eyes with the Lord of Winterfell. "This message… was not meant for our eyes, dear uncle."

"No, it was not. It was marked for the eyes of the Lady Catelyn, and her eyes alone. It was sealed with a small blob of blue wax. Unmarked by stamp or seal in its secrecy."

"Yes…" Harry said slowly, and then passed a hand of the letter. It seemed to shiver and shimmer in his opposite hand. "But not to my eyes. And now, not to ours either."

Gendry craned his neck from his position at the window. He could just barely make out the twist of the wax seal where Harry revealed that it had once been stamped in the blue wax with the moon-and-falcon seal of House Arryn. Gendry understood at once that it must have come from Lsya Arryn, Jon Arryn's widowed wife.

"She wrote to her sister in warning that that Lannisters were not to be trusted." Harry looked almost annoyed. "As if anyone with eyes or ears needed such trivial advice."

"You saw what she wrote in truth, did you not, little prince?"

"Aye, and I would believe every word of it if she presented any of proof to support her claims. I would tell you plain that it is truth that Queen Cersei wanted good Jon Arryn dead. That was no secret among the court, even with how little time I spent there. But did she do it personally? Of that I doubt. And were there others that shared the ambition of his murder? Again, I have little doubt."

"But you have more you wish to say, nephew."

"And I will say it as I have want to do. Someone murdered Jon Arryn, of that I am sure. He was not for the Stranger's embrace and suddenly fell ill without rhythm or reason to what ailed him. No maester, even Jon's personal one could cure him." Harry's eyes turned hard like two emerald daggers. "If a man, even in his advanced age were to die so quick and without natural reason, then all who were around him should be equally as dead. Myself. My father who spoke and feasted with the man much. His wife who he loved dearly. His son, who he entertained and loved dearly. Gendry here who delivered my letters to him personally. All his staff and knights. But only he fell to his mysterious illness. No one else. Only him."

"Lysa is sick with grief, but I find your words sound in their logic, Harry." Lord Stark began to pace the floor himself. "As my lady wife said to me; Lysa is impulsive, yes, but this message was carefully planned, cleverly hidden. She knew it meant death if her letter fell into the wrong hands. To risk so much, she must have more than mere suspicion."

"You know what that means." Harry handed the letter back to Eddard Stark. "You _must_ come south. You _must_ be Hand of the King. _We must_ discover the truth."

"A truth you have not uncovered with your sorcery?" Lord Stark saw at once that Harry was frustrated by this, because he was right.

"A truth I cannot _confirm_ with my talents… because there are those who hide among the court and the kingdom that know of my abilities… and how best to hinder them. They have salted all in my divining path. Just as I know I will find nothing investigating the tower that Bran fell from." There was a bitterness in Harry's voice and Gendry saw that Lord Stark was concluding just as they did.

"The Lannisters have a wizard in their employ? I should hardly think so." He stroked his beard. "No, a wizard could not hide so close to you for several days without leave. No, they have one trained in the mystic… but not of talent for casting any spells. One that can move undetected, but throw you off a trail by salting the earth so your magic is moot. And there must be plenty of them."

"Twenty and counting that I have identified." Harry said with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. "Some are sloppier than others in covering their tracks. I know of them to be under thumb by the Lannisters, Baelish, and even a few cared for by Varys. And I also know that I am not the only target they wish to hinder. My powers are stronger than any other I have encountered, but even I am not without the same weaknesses that those like me suffer from."

"Others take all south of the Neck!" Lord Stark spat on the floor. "The south is a nest of adders I would do better to avoid."

"Not in truth, Lord Stark." Gendry bowed his head to avoid the man's slashing gaze. "The Hand of the King has great power, my lord. Power to find the truth of Lord Arryn's death, to bring his killers to the king's justice. Power to move more freely than the crown prince approaching matrimony to the Reach's most lovely flower. Power to protect Lady Arryn and her son, if the worst be true. Power to see Queen Cersei's head on a spike… if the worst be true."

Gendry kept his head bowed for fear of seeing two pair of eyes glaring at him. But thankfully Harry spoke up in a few moments later, and when Gendry did rise Lord Stark was already meeting the prince's eyes steadily.

"You love my father like a brother. You are brothers. He finds himself surrounded by Lannisters at all hours of the day and night. Cersei in his bedchambers. Ser Jamie at his side as his sworn knight. Even his squire is a yellow-haired Lannister shit." Harry spat on the floor. "Would you leave your brother surrounded by Lannisters?"

Lord Stark turned away from them and went to the window, making Gendry move away to give him space. They did not speak for a while. They waited, quiet, while Eddard Stark said a silent farewell to the home he loved. When he turned away from the window at last, his voice was tired and full of melancholy, and moisture glittered faintly in the corners of his eyes.

"My father went south once, to answer the summons of a king. He never came home again."

"A different time, lord uncle." Harry said. "A different king. A different kingdom."

"Yes," Ned Stark said dully. He seated himself on a bench by the window.

"Robb is fourteen. Soon enough, he will be a man grown. He must learn to rule, and staying in your stead would do him a world of good."

"Catelyn will govern." Lord Stark said, and his words brokered no argument. "I will not be here for him, and he is not yet ready. She will make him part of her councils. He must be ready when his time comes, but Gods willing not for many years."

"A stark must rule Winterfell. A trueborn Stark, lord uncle. To seat your lady wife, even in your absence—"

"Her blood is in their veins." Lord Stark narrowed his eyes. "They are as much Tully as they are Stark. To say she is unfit is to say they are only half acceptable."

"It is an ill omen, is all I meant." Harry bowed his head in peace, and Lord Stark dipped his chin in acceptance. "There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. This you told me many years ago. A Stark to _rule_ , not to council. Robb is a level-headed lad, and so with Maester Luwin and your lady-wife will not make ruin of your seat in your absence. Younger lords than he are made, and with far less experience. After all, you were named Lord Stark of Winterfell in the same sort of manner."

" _That_ was war."

" _This_ is life."

For a long while, Lord Stark simply stared at Harry, stroking his beard as if turning the words over and over in his mind.

"You are good with your words, nephew. Honeyed as they are, they make my mind to taste their logic." Lord Stark sighed. "I will give heed to your sway, but only in council for now with Maester Luwin and my lady wife. Should either find fault with this, I will have your hind tanned for question my years of judgement with your youthful endeavor."

Harry laughed, small and weak. "I do not seek to unseat the old, uncle. Merely to promote and ensure the future with youth. The best teacher is experience, and a lot can be learned for Robb simply while we ride to King's Landing."

"Aye, truth be to your honeyed words…" Lord Stark grumbled.

"Would you trust Maester Luwin so well with advising your son as he would you?" Gendry asked, and Lord Stark met his eyes coldly.

"I trust Maester Luwin as I would my own blood. He would give my son his voice in all things great and small. Teach my son the things he needs to know. Winter is coming."

Gendry nodded gravely, and felt that he had won a bit of the northern lord's respect by raising his inquiry even if it was followed by a stretch of silence after the man's words.

"Now then," Harry said, his voice returning to what was normal. "We should inquire of Bran's present condition. Maester Luwin and Tyrion have been working for a while now. And I do not feel Bran has left us."

As Gendry followed respectfully behind his prince brother and the Lord of Winterfell, he could almost hear the thoughts in their heads. They were men of the north, even if Harry was a shade less. He knew what they would say. That summer will end soon enough, and childhood as well.

For winter was coming…

* * *

Bronn reached the landing and stood for a long moment, afraid. He reached into his furs and took a swig of wine from a water skin. He took courage from that. He straightened, and entered the room.

His employer, Tyrion Lannister was there beside the boy's bed. The half-man had been there, day and night, for the entire time since the boy's fall. Not for a moment had he left young Bran's side, even after working tirelessly helping Maester Luwin and the septa heal the boy. He had all three of his meals brought to him there, and chamber pots as well, and a small hard bed to sleep on, though Tyrion never slept at all. He fed the boy himself, the honey and water and herb mixture that sustained life. Not once did the Imp leave the room.

Bronn left every chance he could.

What they were doing was not just madness. It was beyond that.

They were spitting in the face of a God in man's form.

But now there was no more time for Bronn to skirt away.

"He'll kill us," Bronn muttered somberly as he closed the door behind him. He did not do so softly, or harshly. He was to appear as normal as possible.

Over Bran's bed hung a crystal pendant that swung back and forth, from one shoulder of the boy to the next and back again.

That morning the crystal had been clear, as if made from the purest ice in all the North.

Now that crystal was as black as something that oozed from a month-long dead beast. Bronn looked at it in mild disgust.

"I don't much fancy the unnecessary risk to my life." Bronn continued as he dropped into a chair in the corner of the room. Tyrion was bent over an aged tome, muttering strange words that sounded different from the tongue of man and making odd gestures with his hands. "The prince will discover us. Salt can't protect us forever!"

Tyrion stopped whatever he was doing with an air of annoyance.

"You can leave if you want." Tyrion sneered, his ugly face made all the uglier by the expression. "But you won't do it. You know that I'm the only one here with half a brain that can protect you."

"The boy fell!" Bronn gulped down another warm swig of wine. "They tried to kill him! Without a second thought here in the middle of Winterfell!"

"Keep your voice _down_!" Tyrion hissed, closing his old book and throwing it at Bronn's head. "That salt line and these ancient protections in the castle don't stop you from being overheard if someone happens to be _near the damn door_!"

Bronn did lower his volume, but not his tone. "They should die for this, not us! They caused this mess, not us! Not you! Let them die, and save us all their future stupidities!"

"That is my family you are talking about!"

"Fat lot of good they've been to you. Fat lot of good they've put you in with _attempt to murder a Stark family_ _heir_!"

Tyrion lowered his head, but snatched the wine skin from Bronn's hand. He nearly inhaled the drink like a man who thirsted for days.

"Hey!"

"You were meant to bring me one back, anyway." Tyrion sighed in some relief, dropping to the floor with his back against Bran's bed post. "I'm going to die anyway… May as well be drunk while I'm turned to dust. Or fed to the direwolves… Or thrown off the Wall… My stupid family! Damn them! Damn them _all_! Damn the whole Lannister line since the days Aegon the Conqueror!"

Bronn gave Tyrion a long searching look. "Can it…? Will it truly work? Will he truly walk? Will he… will he really forget?"

"I don't understand how this works!" Tyrion complained, throwing his hands up. "I had the crystal! I did all the hocus pocus! It started turning black as coal hours ago, but I don't know if it truly _worked_!"

"It turned black." Bronn offered with a lazy smile. He was beginning to feel the warmth of wine in his belly. "That has to mean something. We saw the prince do it a couple of times. It looks right."

"I stole power from the Maester!" Tyrion still whined in between gulping down drink. "Harry is bound to notice."

"I saw him talking in hushed tones with the Maester earlier," Bronn was starting to feel good about their treachery. "He looked relieved. I think he's more concerned with the little lord being in good health than anything else. It's a weakness. Perhaps the only one we can exploit."

"To think they would push the boy from the tower, though…" the sellsword shook his head, "I've seen stupid, and heard dumb, but this… It takes the cake right off the table. We are in the middle of Winterfell."

"I know…" Tyrion groaned.

"They did it while they were the only ones left in the castle with motivate to do it."

"I know."

"And then they've been avoiding the issue like a pair of children who sold their father's boots for sweet pies."

"I know!" Tyrion yelled, bashing his fist back against the bed post.

Bran stirred for a moment, and Bronn had never in his life gone so still and rigid. He tensed up worse than when he was nearing a bandit's camp to slaughter them all in their sleep.

That was how much he feared the prince's wraith. How much he feared the prince. Feared his might. His magic. His very presence if he were displeased.

Bronn truly understood fear in that single breathless moment before young Bran eased back into his deep magically-induced slumber.

He would never again complain about not being paid by the prince. Never again.

Tyrion got up on wobbly legs, and with another swig from the wine sag, tossed it over to Bronn who caught it easily. "Damned if I do, and more damned if I don't… That boy is going to walk out of here without a single memory of that day."

Bronn slumped back into his chair with sigh. "And if he doesn't… or on the off chance he does remember any of it… I will be packing my things for north of the Wall. Seems the only place in all the lands the prince has second thoughts about going again."

Tyrion eyed him with a strange look. "There are things there that would bring you just as much terror as Harry could. Dark things. Ancient things."

"I'll take my chances with the dark and ancient." Bronn looked up at the ceiling. "At least they'll have to find me to kill me. One wrong move with Prince Hardian, and I might be dead while he breaks his fast half the land away."

Tyrion snorted. "Harry is indeed powerful, but I'd not wager his power that strong."

Bronn shook his head. "You weren't there in Tyrs Ilse… You didn't see what I saw. The way the warriors fled from him the moment he began using his sorcery. And then, with seven thunderous claps of his hands… The sound like funeral bells tolling for those poor fools… They just fell. Bent. Broken. Dead. Twisted beyond imagination. As if something took hold of them by their spines and made wet cloth of their bodies… The prince called it easy. I called it hell."

Tyrion looked away from Bronn, desperately trying not to envision what he was just told. "Yes… that sounds like Harry's darker side, all right…"

"He's going to come sniffing around here eventually." Bronn brought up, a hand wiping down his face harshly. "We need to be rid of the salt lines before he sees them. And all these wizard books and such."

"Yes, yes… you are right. Get rid of it all and hide it away in the whore house outside the castle walls." Tyrion mumbled, waving aside Bronn's concern. If they were caught practicing witchcraft, then the punishment would pale in comparison to the wraith brought down upon them should Bran not walk again under their care.

"This needs to work, Imp," Bronn said in a hollow tone. "Or else… none of us may live to see past that Stark boy's first talk with whoever sees him wake."

"It will work," Tyrion snapped, but in the back of his mind he was beginning to have doubts again.

It would work… right?

It simply had to.

For if not… no one would escape Hadrian's wraith this day.


End file.
